Only One
by HollyHobbit13
Summary: Jordan Waters is an Immortal, who is transported to Middle Earth, where she meets our favorite Elf. Note: Published under my original name, "HollyHobbit1"
1. Origins

I don't own the fandoms and/or characters from 1. Highlander, 2. Highlander: The Series, or 3. Lord of The Rings.

I don't make money/profit from writing this story.

Jordan Waters is mine; a special 'thank you' to Raq for beta reading/editing. I originally posted this story as "HollyHobbit1", and have tweaked/reworked it here and there. This fanfic is geared more towards _Highlander and Highlander: The Series _fans and will assume the reader is familiar with _H and H:TS_ franchise(s). Some Reviewers have asked when/if Jordie will reveal herself as Immortal; It _MAY_ be explored, but _IS NOT_ a given. Gerald Lamb owns the character Caine Spencer/The Halcyon, and is used WITHOUT his expressed/granted permission, as his webpage links no longer work/exist; Gerald, if you're out there, I loved your character so much, I just had to use him! No offense to any purists of any of the fandoms out there. In 'Highlander, End Game', Duncan was married to another Immortal, Kate/Faith. In **my** story, Duncan was never married. It is not my intention to upset/offend the purists of LoTR/H/H:TS; if you find this story highly improbably/inaccurate to either franchise, feel free to write your own fanfic. This is my story. Constructive criticism, suggestions and feedback are appreciated, flames cheerfully ignored.

**Only One**

" . . . In the days before memory, there were the Immortals.

We were with you then, and we are with you now.

We are driven by the endless fight to survive

In a Game which knows no limit of time or place

We are the seeds of Legend, but our true Origins are unknown.

We simply are. . . "

-Highlander, Endgame

Origins

Seacouver, Washington

Present day

"Code blue, Life Flight, helo-deck!"

The Public Address system intoned the announcement overhead three times, sending the medical trauma team scrambling to meet the helicopter. Behind doors clearly marked 'Operating Department – Authorized Personnel Only', in the wide hallway, Jordan Waters stood to one side. Pressed against the wall, the on duty surgical staff hurried past her - wheeling bulky, life saving equipment before them as they entered the operating room reserved for trauma cases. The woman was tempted to keep walking, but her conscience got the better of her; with a sigh, Jordan pulled out a clean mask from the box over the scrub sink, fastened the ties, and stepped into the room's controlled frenzy of activity.

"It's a 'Code Blue'; what's going on?" Jordan asked her colleagues as she helped unwrap the sterile equipment.

"This is what separates the men from the boys Jordie - incoming trauma. A car with multiple unrestrained occupants rolled over, all ejected - driver only survived. You can imagine the injuries. We're ready if the Code Blue needs his or her chest cracked open." The Charge Nurse replied as he helped the team prepare the room for the impending patient's arrival.

"A better question is: '_why_ are you still here, Miss Waters?'" Craig asked. Though the bottom half of his face was covered by the surgical mask, his expressive eyes said enough, and Jordan could well imagine the scowl it covered.

"I thought you could use help." Jordan answered.

"If a sick call comes in the next thirty seconds, consider yourself back on the clock until the afternoon. Get out o' here while you can!" Craig sternly but affectionately instructed her. Craig was right. It was unknown how long the case would last, and she was really tired.

"Let me help you open, Craig. They'll be coming any second." Jordan said.

"You've done your shift and you're off the clock. Go before I change my mind!"

"Fine, fine! I'll see you when I get back. Have a good shift." Jordan conceded.

"Count on it!" Craig said as he gently but firmly pushed her out the door.

Though willing to stay until things calmed down, Jordan was more than glad to leave. In the female locker room's full-length mirror, the woman studied her reflection before removing her OR cap and shaking her hair out. Winding a length of blue-black hair around her finger, she examined it.

"I need a trim." Jordan said, frowning.

Spiky bangs with graduated side layers framed an oval face, its length reaching her waist. Jordan leaned forward, critically examining her features; the most striking of her features were her eyes. The almond shape hinted at her Asian heritage; however, the unusual color spoke of her American roots; green as a new leaf one moment, they could darken to moss, depending on her mood. Or so she was told. With a sigh, Jordan made her way to her locker, changed out of her hospital issued scrubs and into her street clothes.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Jordan Waters has left the building. Wooohooo - Hello vacation!" she muttered softly to herself .

Wearily shrugging into her coat, the woman grabbed her purse and closed her locker door. Though tired, Jordan's heavy footsteps lightened, feeling the unmistakable tingling, thrumming hum washing over her senses as she drew closer to the exit.

"Need an escort to your car, Jordan? Its still dark out there…?" The night shift hospital security guard asked.

"No thanks, Brian, someone is waiting for me — see you in a month!" she replied with a wide grin.

"Must be nice! Where you goin'?" the burly guard asked jovially and with just a touch of envy.

"On my vacation? Anywhere but here, my friend!" Jordan called over her shoulder as she walked towards the exit.

With a mischievous laugh, Jordan blew him a kiss; Brian made a show of catching it and holding it over his heart, blushing with pleasure as Jordan winked at him and waved good-bye; the automatic doors slid open then closed behind her with a pneumatic hiss. With a sigh, the security guard watched as she disappeared into the darkness. Making her way to her car, the smile on the woman's face faded as she thought about her night . . .

_All was quiet and uneventful in the Operating Department – until an emergency rolled in during the last hours of Jordan's shift. Despite the heroic efforts of the attending surgeon and the surgical team, the man died, leaving behind three young children and a wife. During the operation, it was learned that two days prior, the patient presented to the emergency room suffering from a stroke; after the usual battery of tests, it was discovered the stroke was actually caused from a blood vessel bleeding in the brain – or a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. Ironically, he had been scheduled for surgery early that morning, but the re-bleeding aneurysm drastically altered those plans. Jordan did not envy the physicians their grim and unpleasant task to inform the family of their sudden and tragic loss._

_Life is so precious and fragile. I wonder if he got to say goodbye. . . ?_ she thought to herself.

Lost in her thoughts, Jordan didn't see or hear the dark figure shadowing her steps until he was literally upon her.

"You don't need this, girlie" a rough voice growled.

Startled, Jordan looked up at her assailant as he snatched her purse. Angry and indignant, Jordan hung onto it—until the man pulled out a screwdriver, and quickly and repeatedly stabbed her in the chest and stomach until she let go her purse. Jordan clutched her midsection in pain, her mind registering the bright red blood oozing between her fingers and covering her hands, watching the rapidly spreading crimson stains. Eyes wide open, Jordan looked at her assailant in disbelief as she fell to the ground in shock, her hands and feet felt colder than they should. The woman's last conscious thought was "Duncan's not going to like this . . . "

Darkness… a dull throbbing pain in her chest and midsection; dull sounds sharpened, pushing through the thick, fog-like sensation filling her mind. Memories rushed back with vivid clarity; with a quiet gasp, Jordan's eyes flew open as sat bolt upright, frantically feeling where she had been stabbed – in the heart.

"Rule number one Jordie – 'pay attention'. Here, drink this." Duncan's stern tone brooked no argument as he handed her a lead crystal tumbler filled with malt whisky.

"No, I don't-"

"Drink!"

The younger Immortal obediently reached for the proffered tumbler and took a small sip, choking as the amber liquid burned its way down. Jordan glared at her rescuer as she took a second sip; grimacing from the sting of the alcohol. Inhaling slowly, the woman took stock of her situation. She was in Duncan's loft, in his bed, clad in one of his old, comfortably worn shirt. On her, its hem reached her knees and looked more like a nightdress. Her bloodied and punctured clothing was draped over a nearby chair, as well as her coveted purse.

"Everything's in there. He didn't get far…"

Jordan didn't bother asking what happened to her assailant; she knew Duncan dealt with him as he saw fit; frankly, she did not care what happened.

"Did anyone see?" she hesitantly asked.

"Fine security the hospital's got." The Highlander snorted sarcastically.

"I guess that means 'no'." Jordan concluded, relieved. So far, she'd been successful at staying alive – until now. With no witnesses, the young Immortal would not have to leave everything behind and assume a new identity – and life.

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, known in Immortal circles as the Highlander, sat back in his overstuffed chair, a faint smile on his lips. The sight of Jordan in his bed took him back in time, to a special moment in his long life, when he shared his heart, home and bed with Tessa Noël. For over ten years, Duncan was blessed with Tessa, the love of his life. They had so much love for one another; building a life together, they were planning to marry when Tessa was cruelly taken from him – fatally shot by a robber. Never lacking in offers to share a woman's bed, and occasionally accepting one, it has been a very long time since Duncan allowed a woman to share his bed; now there - in the middle of it, sat Jordan. However, all he felt for the younger Immortal is a brother's love and a Mentor's concern. Thankfully, it is mutually platonic.

"You know, Jordie — if you continue to day dream when you should be alert, that pretty little head of yours won't be on your neck for much longer. Not to mention that mortals will be on to you. We survive by secrecy and I'd rather not be parted from your company. It's a good thing I came when I did." Duncan said.

Though Duncan's tone of voice was deceptively mild, his Highland burr is more pronounced, his dark eyes more intense than usual – unmistakable signs of his displeasure. Silently, Jordan accepted the rebuke, eyes cast respectfully downward. Standing, the Scot tossed Jordan some clothes.

"Put these on. Joe and a friend I'd like you to meet are here; join us in the kitchen after you've dressed and I'll fix you a plate." Shaking his head, Duncan sighed heavily and left. Cocking her head and listening intently, Jordan could hear low voices; thankfully, a lacquered screen provided a measure of privacy in the loft's open floor plan.

The sweats Jordan pulled on once belonged to Duncan's former student and friend, Richie Ryan. Heart wrenching guilt was never far away; no matter how accidental it was, it didn't change the fact the young man died by Duncan's hand. Though it was been years ago, the pain is as fresh as if it happened only yesterday. Once Immortality is triggered, time's passing ceased to matter. The years flow together with numbing sameness, marked by the number of heads taken, the never ending battle to keep one's own head. Now Duncan had Jordan Waters. She is his chance to atone for Richie's death. As her First Teacher, Duncan reserved a special place in his great heart for Jordan, for she is many things to him: more than a Student, not quite a lover . . . perhaps the daughter he would never sire . . . a friend in need of his wisdom, experience and guidance. An endless romantic, intelligent, naïve and strong, Jordan is full of contradictions that amused and frustrated him to no end. Duncan MacLeod swore to teach his young charge all he could, to ensure she had a fair chance at The Game. Unfortunately, circumstances may change, the Highlander mused. After all, there can _be_ only One. Sifting through countless memories, Duncan thought back to the time he met Jordan Waters…

: : : _: Philippines_

_February 1945_

_Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was fighting with the Allies in the Pacific campaign when his Army Company deployed to the Philippines. As promised, General Douglas MacArthur returned the year prior. The Second World War ended; the American presence in the Far East was to provide stability -to root out and quell the remaining pockets of Japanese resistance hiding in the dense jungles and many caverns of the Philippine Islands. It was during a weekend liberty pass, that the Chieftain's son met Jordan Waters. Catching sight of her from across the street, the Clansman recognized her as a pre-Immortal. Following her from a distance, Duncan discretely inquired as to who she is. Jordan brought out the protective side in Duncan, especially when a rowdy bunch of sailors with too much drink in them, followed her down a street, thinking she'd be willing to have their company. _

_After knocking a few heads around and bloodying several noses and faces, the Highlander was able to convince them otherwise. Making her acquaintance in such a dashing manner, Jordan was suitably impressed and invited Duncan to lunch at her family's compound. Cherished and coddled, Jordan Waters, Duncan learned, is the only issue of an American entrepreneur wed to a rich Chinese businessman's daughter, and all of 21 years young. Even then she was a bit of a brat, but oh, what a lovely one. Jordan's almond shaped eyes, pink lips and pearly skin came from her Chinese/Filipino mother. Winning the gene pool lottery, her unique eye color - a startling shade of green, came from her green eyed, black haired Caucasian American father. _

_Jordan's father, grateful for Duncan's timely interference, welcomed the gallant Scotsman and treated him to his best Cuban cigars and an endless supply of San Miguel beer. In her mother's eyes, the Highlander could do no wrong. Their growing friendship progressed to where Duncan often stopped by Jordan's home – just to spend time with her parents; the Clansman could often be found with her father in his library discussing business, or in the kitchen flirting outrageously with the family's ancient cook, who made the Highlander's favorite Filipino dishes with extra care when Duncan was visiting. _

_The lighthearted times ended when Jordan died her First Death. Late to rendezvous with her girlfriends, the young lady stubbornly refused her mother's request that Jordan be driven to her appointment by the family's chauffeured car. Instead, her headstrong daughter insisted upon travel by jitney – flamboyantly painted and outrageously decorated United States military jeeps left over from the Second World War. Relishing the novelty of the small commuter bus, and most importantly – the chance to be away from her driver's ever watchful gaze, Jordan enjoyed an exhilarating and often hair-raising ride to Luneta Park. Catching site of her girlfriends waiting for her at the Jose Rizal monument, the young lady waited impatiently for a lull in traffic to cross the busy road. Seizing the first opportunity presenting itself, Jordan hurriedly crossed the street towards her friends; unfortunately, another jitney -whose driver was intent on beating pedestrians through the busy intersection, failed to see her. Burdened with a full load of passengers, the driver was unable to stop or swerve in time to avoid her. The resulting impact dragged Jordan beneath the jitneys' undercarriage. Rushing to her side, her best friend gathered Jordan's bloody, broken body to her and held her tightly as Jordan took her last breath, watching the light of life fade from Jordan's eyes. A throng of morbidly curious gathered around the lifeless young woman, nervously laughing and pointing at Jordan's open, unseeing eyes. Throwing her head back, her best friend screamed; the awful sound joined the hysterical screams of their weeping friends, and added to the increasing cacophony of excited chatter of the curious on-lookers leaning outside the jitneys' windows. The horns honking around the throng blocking traffic, and the wail of emergency vehicle sirens, whose services are not needed, added to the din._

_Duncan was at Jordon's home, playing the tile game mahjongg with her parents and their close friends, when her parents received word of her death. Too distraught to make the trip to the morgue to identify Jordan's body, the Highlander left her parents in the care of their friends and immediately took charge of the situation - making arrangements, pulling strings, calling in favors, and spreading a small fortune in pesos to purchase silence - knowing Jordan would revive, and the real questions would begin. Jordan's heartbroken parents, emotionally despondent from the loss of their treasured daughter, didn't question Duncan's sudden assertiveness in the matter. _

_Shortly thereafter, Jordan's grieving parents cremated and interred the remains of another, believing the cremains to be their lost daughter; in reality, Jordan was cloistered in Duncan's apartment. Heavy curtains drawn tightly shut, in the stifling heat of the closed room, Duncan waited and watched. The dim light of the single bulb barely reached the Highlander, who sat unmoving next to the bed upon which Jordan's lifeless body lay. Evening became morning became evening again, and still he waited, listening to the muted sounds of the world outside fade and begin anew. His vigil ended when the atmosphere changed noticeably. The smell of ozone filled the room. Duncan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring slightly at the distinctive smell. The hairs on the nape of his neck and fore arms rose in response to the crackling electricity that collected from everywhere and nowhere, racing along the very walls of the room and down the wiring of the naked light bulb. Flooding the room with light that permeated every corner, the bulb shone impossibly bright, forks of electricity gathered and intensified; shadows flickered madly on the walls. The room went dark when the bulb burst, unable to withstand the intensity. Under the Immortal's watchful gaze, tiny pinpoints of bright, white - hot light coalesced, hovering over the young woman, enshrouding her in its luminescence before settling upon her and fading away. For long moments, nothing happened. Faintly, a spark appeared, then more; Duncan's lips lifted into a thin smile. The mysterious, shimmering particles were innumerable; concentrating into a mass of energy - seeking, surrounding, enveloping the crooked appendages; the strange force took hold of the damaged limbs. Guiding them slowly and purposefully, the broken bones straightened of their own accord. Exposed, splintered bones, dark with congealed blood, lightened and brightened to a vibrant red as the bone reabsorbed the spilled life giving fluid, the room filled with wet, squelching, squishing, sucking sounds of shifting limbs moving back into their proper anatomical places. The reversal of Jordan's fatal injuries played out before the Highlander's eyes, her wounds miraculously healing at an unnatural rate – ante mortem and postmortem bruising lightened, then faded completely, eventually taking on a healthy, youthful glow. Finally, with a gasp, the newly resurrected Immortal opened her eyes - panic stricken, her mouth open wide in a soundless scream. Taking a deep breath, Jordan tried again to scream; instead, a hoarse, guttural cry escaped from her lips, as her eyes darted about._

_Disoriented, Jordan's last memories rushed back, disjointed - her friends waving and calling out to her as she hurried toward them, not understanding why some were screaming, others frantically motioned her to "…titigil (stop) – TUMAKBO (RUN) – antabayanan (look out)!", her best friend's tear-streaked face above her, becoming strangely blurry and dim, before all went dark. Holding her flailing body down to the bed, Duncan's familiar low voice calmed and soothed Jordan, giving her a focal point. Confused, and frightened, Jordan's mind refused to accept Duncan's explanation of why she is not in her home. The Fledgling refused to believe she died, despite the jumbled images of her last mortal moments, the inability to reconcile time's passing. The toe tag issued to her at the morgue meant nothing. After all, Jordan is very much alive, isn't she? Duncan had no choice, but to repeatedly, forcibly restrain Jordan from leaving the apartment and returning to her parents._

_Acceptance of her own death did not come to Jordan until Duncan came bearing her official death certificate. One month after her memorial service, Duncan brought word Jordan's parents, in an attempt to ease their grief and pain, embarked upon an extended trip away. If a painful death was not bad enough, the fledgling Immortal finally accepted her former life is lost to her forever, when Duncan informed Jordan her father's business and her childhood home was sold, her family's assets liquidated after her parent's departure. Everything was gone: Jordan's family, her friends - she did not have a single Centavo to hold, for her personal effects -the contents of her purse, her shoes strewn across the street like scattered leaves, were collected by her friends and returned to her shocked, disbelieving parents. Their elderly Cook passed away from grief of Jordan's loss; the old woman watched her grow from infancy, and loved her as her own. Life as Jordan knew it, is no more; she had no choice but to learn The Game._

"_You're under my instruction now, Jordie; we are linked and locked for all time. As long as you live, you'll be under my protection." The Highlander swore._

"_But . . . after I'm stronger . . . will you come after my head?" she anxiously asked. _

"_Don't give me a reason to." The Highlander answered her._

"_That's not reassuring, Duncan." Jordan said._

"_We live violent lives. It's the best I can give you." He replied._

_Duncan MacLeod began training Jordan in the art of combat; often, the process required a combination of saint-like patience and incredible self-restraint—from having to beat her into compliance. In the beginning, it was difficult working with the Princess Jordan was; however, once Jordan focused, she proved to be an apt and diligent pupil. During their sparring sessions in the Philippines, Jordan learned the ancient art of Escrima, or stick fighting. The duo traveled through the Asian continent; in Thailand, he taught her basic survival skills in the wild - a far cry from her pampered lifestyle. In Japan, the Teacher taught his Student the way of the sword. Duncan enjoyed instructing Jordan to throw knives, spikes and other weapons. There they discovered the new Immortal's skill with the shuriken—or throwing stars - they were Jordan's favorite. Pleased with her progress, Jordan still had much to learn; time, experience and determination, the best instructors, would teach her what Duncan could not - provided Jordan kept her head on her shoulders. _

_After Jordan took her fifth head, Duncan gifted her with a dozen of her own Scorpion shuriken, a set of Escrima sticks; when joined, became a bo staff, and her first sword- a beautiful Masamune Katana forged by the wizened master sword smith himself; shortly after, Jordan experienced wanderlust and decided it was time to strike out on her own. After making Jordan swear to keep in touch, with many misgivings, and Duncan's parting gift, a small fortune of ten thousand American dollars, Teacher and student parted ways. : : : : _

Dressed in Richie's old sweats and a pair of Duncan's thick cotton socks, Jordan resembled a forlorn child as she slowly made her way to the kitchen. Joe Dawson, a Watcher and good friend, sat on a kitchen stool drinking a glass of Cola. Smiling as he slid off the stool, Joe enveloped Jordan in a gentle hug before pulling out a stool for her to sit on; smiling her thanks, Jordan took her seat at the kitchen bar as Duncan pushed a plate of food before her.

"Good to see you, kiddo; Duncan here tells me you had a little…'incident' at the hospital; kinda ironic, eh?"

Making a face at Joe while she chewed, Jordan swallowed before she smiled sheepishly.

"My knight in a cluttered antique shop came to my rescue!" she replied.

Eager to put the incident behind her, Jordan looked quizzically at Duncan's other guest. An older gentleman dressed in a dapper gray suit with silver-white hair, he had a presence about him, an unmistakable aura of authority. However, it was his eyes that caught her attention; kind in expression, blue-gray in color, they held a sharp, perceptive glint. With a single, piercing glance, Jordan felt Gregory knew everything about her. Disconcerted, the Immortal looked expectantly at Duncan, who was quietly watching her.

"Jordie, I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Gregory McGulloch-Gregory, this is Jordie. He also deals in antiques, mainly Celtic items from Scotland, England and Ireland; his Paris shop isn't far from mine." Duncan said.

"Lovely to meet you, Jordan Milagros Waters. Duncan tells me you two go back quite a ways." Gregory's sharp gaze rested upon her.

As Gregory clasped her hand, the Immortal noticed his grip was firm, and his skin warm and dry. Glancing at the men's half-eaten plates of food, she picked up her fork and forced herself to take dainty bites of food as Joe settled back onto his stool.

"Likewise. Yes, Duncan and I traveled through Asia for a while. He taught me a few things." She shot a cheeky smile at Duncan, who raised his eyebrows at her in return. Gregory smiled apologetically to Jordan before turning to his host.

"Well, Duncan, it was a pleasure to visit with you again; alas, I've business to attend to." said Gregory, "Kindly inform me if you find more acquisitions I may be interested in; I am here for three weeks and shall see you next week."

With his cane in hand, Joe Dawson slid off his stool as well. The Watcher turned to Duncan. "Same here, buddy, I gotta get going. Thanks for breakfast! I owe you one; a band's comin' over at 11:00 for rehearsal before their gig tonight. See you then-and make sure Jordie comes—there's more to life than the operating room, you know." Joe fixed Jordan with a steely glare, the smile on his lips softening the expression.

As Duncan walked his guests out, Jordan waited till they were out of sight. Glad to drop her façade of decorum, she eagerly devoured the rest of her food and started to work on Gregory's untouched fruit. Still hungry, the woman reached for Joe's half-eaten plate. Generously buttering a flapjack, Jordan piled scrambled eggs onto the center before placing two sausage links on top of the golden, fluffy eggs. Holding it like a taco, Jordan poured maple syrup over it before taking a large bite, her eyes closed in ecstasy as she chewed.

Slowing down long enough to enjoy her food, Jordan licked the crumbs and syrup from her fingers, all the while thinking about the Highlander's odd guest. Jordan stopped chewing when she realized Duncan hadn't stated her full name, yet Gregory McGulloch knew it.

_Things that make you go 'hmmm'_ she mused. With a shrug, Jordan pushed it out of her mind, and thought about Joe's comments. Glancing at the clock, she was surprised to find that it was only 9:00am.

_His guests must have come early; either I took long to revive, or I really needed the rest. _ she mused.

Taking a sip of her cranberry juice, the hollow thud of Duncan's footsteps drew closer; cradling her glass between her hands, Jordan steeled herself for the forthcoming lecture. Duncan sat next to her, pulled his plate toward him and picked up a fork. Taking a bite of his eggs, the Chieftain's Son chewed slowly and purposefully, a sure sign of his displeasure. Slowly sipping her juice, Jordan stifled a belch as she waited for him to speak. Placing his fork on the counter with a resounding '_clink'_, the Highlander turned to his Student.

"Jordie, you had seven puncture wounds. The fact that he was able to get close to you and take you out concerns me. He is mortal. What if he wasn't?" Duncan said, his dark brows drawn together. Eyeing his bacon, Jordan put on her best innocent expression.

"Are you going to eat that?" Jordan asked him hopefully, batting her eyelashes.

Glaring at her, Duncan handed over three strips of bacon and placed them onto Jordan's—formerly Joe's—now empty plate. Taking a slice of toast from Duncan's plate, Jordan ignored his exasperated expression as she placed the bacon on the toast, folded it in half and took a bite. Chewing contentedly, she looked at the Highlander, who pointedly looked at the empty plates surrounding her.

"What? I missed lunch - I just got off work and healing always makes me hungry." She said defensively, her mouth full of food.

"Don't talk with your mouth full." Duncan said, slightly annoyed. The slight twitch at the corner of his lips gave him away; it was difficult for him to be stern with Jordan. However, he did not intend to let her off so easily.

"Did you hear what I said?" he asked; his hard tone brooked no argument. Brushing the crumbs from her lips and hands with her napkin, Jordan sighed.

"Yes, Duncan, I did. To answer your question, well . . . I would've felt him, right? I'm okay. Granted you were there, I would've revived-" Duncan interrupted her.

"And then what? How would you explain the situation to the security guards, or better yet, the media? Do you want to end up as someone's guinea pig? Trust me, it's not something you want to experience." The Scot assured her.

Standing up, the Highlander carried his plate to the sink; about to scrape his leftovers into the garbage disposal, he hesitated. Offering the plate to Jordan, she happily accepted it. Picking up her fork, she dug in and ate almost all of his toast and bacon.

"How can someone so small eat so much?" Duncan wondered.

Jordan shrugged and licked her fingers. Unable to finish the rest, she sat back and rubbed her full stomach. Hoping to make more room in her decidedly full belly, the woman slid off the stool and helped Duncan clean up. Together, they loaded the dishwasher. After consuming her large breakfast, Jordan looked forward to taking a nap on the balcony.

"I went by your apartment and picked up your gear and some clothes. Finish your food, then change and meet me in the dojo. We're training." Duncan said nonchalantly.

"But—" Jordan began to protest; her Teacher's look silenced any further protests as she scraped her plate into the garbage disposal.

#

Wincing as she pulled on her white shirt, Jordan studied her wounds in the mirror. The punctures over her heart, chest and abdomen were healed, the skin still pink and tender to the touch. She quickly plaited her hair into a tight French braid, the wispy side layers, too short to plait, tickled her face. Groaning, Jordan sucked her breath in as she buttoned her sturdy black denim jeans, which hugged her lower half like a second skin.

_I shouldn't have eaten so much! I won't be able to move._ She lamented. A belch helped ease her full stomach. Somewhat.

Over her shirt the Immortal buttoned a molded black leather vest, which served as both a fashion statement, as well as demi-armor. Draping a sash over her shoulder it held her shuriken for easy access. Cinched at her waist, is Jordan's weapon belt: her Katana in it's scabbard on her left hip, her Escrima sticks at her right hip, both neatly out of sight, hidden within the folds of her overcoat. An Armani, of course-it didn't provide much warmth, but it looked fabulous; its graceful line, fabric and cut flattered her figure, but didn't hinder her movements.

The coup de grace is the secret scabbard holding her Katana. Inspecting herself, Jordan was satisfied with her appearance. With her overcoat open, the shuriken were the only visible weapons, winking in the light. Changing her mind, Jordan left behind her sash, sticks and overcoat, and instead grabbed her Katana as she headed out to train.

Duncan stood in the middle of the dojo, his Dragon Head Katana in hand. Like the man who owned it, the dojo hadn't changed much. Various weapons hung from their wall casings and weight lifting equipment was at one of the far corners of the room. On the wall hung Japanese swords and scrolls with Kanji characters decoratively and strategically placed. Jordan's light footsteps whispered across the hard wood floor.

Stopping four feet away from her mentor and friend, the Immortals bowed then assumed an easy fighting stance. Raising their swords, they circled each other slowly, eyes locked upon the other, calculating … attempting to anticipate the other's moves. To throw her off balance, Duncan suddenly rushed towards Jordan; automatically, with her sword gripped tightly in both hands, Jordan countered his attack, her eyes never leaving the Highlander's. Brilliant sparks flew once their Katanas connected. The force behind the Highlander's blade rattled Jordan's teeth, yet she held her own, glad to see Duncan wasn't holding back. For a time, their breathing and the ringing clang of metal on metal, were the only sounds in the room as they traded blows and parries in a dizzying series of thrusts and counter-thrusts, their bodies moving in a graceful yet menacing dance. Breaking away, circling each other, feinting, lunging, parrying, exchanging strikes, the Immortals sparred, until at last Duncan signaled the end of the session.

"You've improved since the last time we trained." Duncan said approvingly, pleased that Jordan kept up with him.

"I like my head." She replied with a saucy tilt of her head, blinking rapidly as the salty sting of her sweat fell into eyes.

Looking out the window, the Highlander decided to end their session. "Okay, let's eat lunch." Duncan said. Surprised, Jordan followed his gaze to see the sun had climbed high in the sky.

With a wicked grin, she yelled, "I treat—you pay!" Duncan swatted her derriere with the flat of his blade, causing her to yelp in mock outrage. Sticking her tongue out at him, Jordan ran for the door as he gave chase.


	2. Leaf of Change

Jordan's time with her Teacher was very pleasant. The Immortals reminisced about the past, caught up with news each one had to tell, and through it all – they trained hard. Her mind had forgotten how unrelenting a taskmaster Duncan MacLeod is; Jordan's sore body, however, reminded her very quickly. This morning began with them moving through relaxing katas, the afternoon passed with intense cardio kickboxing and flexibility training. Afterwards, thoroughly spent physically; Jordan was scarcely able to walk upright - the physical aches and pains a welcome sign, for they signaled the fighting skills she possessed, though long unused, is indeed present.

Before she knew it, a week had passed, and Gregory McGulloch was expected that evening for dinner. After accompanying Duncan to the grocery store, Jordan and her Teacher worked side by side, she chopping and slicing vegetables as the Highlander prepared the marinade for their meal. Separating the crushed garlic into a neat pile, Duncan noticed Jordan blinking rapidly as she scraped the sliced onions into a bowl.

"I told you to bite a wooden spoon, Jordie. Hardheaded woman." The Highlander remarked.

"I know, Duncan. I should've listened." She replied, tears streaming down her face. The younger Immortal washed and dried her hands before going to perch on a kitchen stool. Dabbing at her eyes with a paper napkin, Jordan watched her Mentor cook as she nibbled a raw mushroom.

"Can I help with anything else, Duncan?" she asked.

"Just sit there and look pretty, Jordan." He replied with a wink. Jordan laughed.

"Pretty. I can do pretty. How's this?"

Vamping it up, Jordan struck a sultry pose. Arching her back and giving him her best 'come hither' look, she crossed her eyes, fluttered her eyelashes at the Highlander and blew him a kiss. Playing along, Duncan gave a piercing catcall and leered at her, a rakish grin on his handsome face. Their peals of laughter echoed through the apartment.

Gregory arrived promptly at 6:00pm, and was delighted to see Jordan when she opened the door and welcomed him in. Looking very distinguished in a pair of dark slacks, Gregory's charcoal and silver sweater set off his snowy hair nicely. He entered the loft and peered at Jordan appreciatively, for her forest green sleeveless sweater and black pants emphasized her trim figure and brought out her exotic beauty and eyes.

Drying his hands on a dishtowel, the Highlander stepped out of the kitchen to welcome his guest. Gregory turned to greet Duncan with a smile and a warm handshake.

After their sumptuous meal, the little company retired to the living area. Jordan nursed her ginger ale, quietly listening as the men drank dessert wines and talked of anything and everything under the sun. Gregory just finished telling a particularly amusing story about a recent antique acquisition that had the Immortals doubled over in laughter, when the phone rang. Excusing himself, Duncan went to answer it. With an apologetic look directed towards his guests, the Scot took the call in his office, leaving Gregory and Jordan to get better acquainted.

"So, Jordan, Duncan tells me you're in the medical field." Gregory's sharp gaze rested on the Immortal.

"Yes, I'm a Registered Nurse at Seacouver Medical. I work in the Operating Department." Jordan replied.

"Ah, a Healer." Gregory said, nodding his head.

"Of sorts... I do help with the healing process, but in a more indirect way. And how did you come to be in the antique business?" Jordan asked, ready to change the subject.

It was the young Immortal's personal policy, that when off the clock, she did not want to think about anything or anyone even remotely connected with her job. Once Jordan walked thru the hospital doors, all her work related problems were left behind as well.

"Oh, I've always been interested in other cultures and artifacts; time is a fickle creature, for it dims memory, but it also preserves it as well. Antiques are the remnants of a time past, and Celtic items are my passion - mainly those of Scotland, England and Ireland—so much history, there is; legends and myths have their roots there. Legends always have a grain of truth in them, you know." Jordan smiled as the man spoke, feeling at ease in his company, though she was taken back when Gregory studied her sudden intensity in his eyes.

"How about family? Perhaps a 'Mr. Waters'? Or a significant other for that matter?" Gregory asked.

_Inquiring minds want to know_ Jordan thought. Arching a shapely brow at him, the Immortal smiled before looking away, taking a moment to consider her answer. Her green eyes took on a sad, faraway look before replying.

"No, my parents died a long time ago. As for a 'Mr. Waters', I don't think there will ever be one... not at the rate I'm going. It is challenging to date while working the night shift. But that's okay; Duncan is my family, and I have my work. I'm fine." Jordan answered softly, meeting Gregory's eyes. Her gaze turned to the window, looking out into the gathering darkness.

_Who am I trying to convince? _ Jordan thought glumly to herself, missing the relieved expression on Gregory's face.

"Ah, there is always someone for everyone. Whether it is in this time or another." Gregory commented, his tone matter of fact.

Something in the older gentleman's voice caused Jordan to look at him with a questioning glance, wondering what exactly he meant by that odd comment. Not knowing what to say to fill the suddenly awkward silence, the woman merely smiled to mask her discomfort.

_No, he couldn't possibly know about Us. Or could he . . . ?_ Jordan stared at him, unsure where the conversation was leading.

Gregory held her gaze with a level one of his own. His expression was deceptively innocent, giving nothing away. What began as a pleasant and enjoyable evening was swiftly taking on an odd turn. Gregory and Jordan stared at each other for what felt a lifetime when Duncan returned. Sensing something of importance had just transpired, the Highlander looked between them.

"Did I miss something?" Duncan asked

"No, old boy, we were just talking. But, I best run along. Thank you for a wonderful dinner; it's getting late for these old bones to be traipsing about. I have several appointments to keep on the morrow, and rest is always a good thing." Turning to Jordan, Gregory gave a slight, gallant bow.

"Jordan, I am very pleased you are here. It saves me the grave disappointment of not seeing your lovely face when you open this." Gregory reached into his pant pocket, and with a flourish, presented the woman with a small mahogany box. Surprised, Jordan looked at Duncan, an unspoken question in her eyes. The Highlander smiled, leaving the decision to her. With a grin of delight, Jordan accepted the proffered box. It was beautiful; no larger than a credit card in size, silver runes were carved upon its lid. Opening it carefully, nestled inside on a bed of light brown velvet, lay an exquisitely crafted leaf encircled in a silver thread. Touching it softly, it felt unusually warm beneath her fingertips.

_That's odd, probably from being inside Gregory's pants, _ Jordan thought to herself.

"It's beautiful...um, what is it?"

"That, lovely Jordan, is a leaf from the fabled woods of Lothlórien." Gregory said. His pleasant voice held a wistful note. Jordan wondered why the old gent was so affected. Visibly shaking himself, Gregory smiled at Jordan.

"It is yours, Jordan. Please accept this small gift." The older man said.

"Oh, I can't possibly accept it – it's much too valuable." The Immortal reluctantly replied as she gazed covetously at the jeweled leaf.

If Gregory ran in the same social circle as the Highlander, Jordan knew the older gentleman, as does the Clansman, dealt in nothing but high-end antiques and sculptures - if one had to ask how much, then one could not afford it.

"I knew the moment we met that this was meant for you. It belongs to you …if you choose to accept it." Gregory said, with an odd ghost of a smile on his lips.

Jordan glanced quickly at her Mentor, seeking his opinion; with a smile and the lightest nod of his head, Duncan gave his blessing. Unbeknownst to the Immortals, Gregory held his breath as he watched the silent exchange. With a wide grin, Jordan turned back to the older man.

"Do you accept it, Jordan Waters?" Gregory asked softly, studying her with an unreadable expression in his eyes.

Jordan could not shake the feeling Gregory's simple query held much more meaning beyond the obvious question. Shaking off the strange vibe, the young Immortal clutched the trinket tighter.

"Yes!" she answered eagerly, holding his steady gaze. Nodding in satisfaction, Gregory smiled.

"Then may I assist you?" Gregory asked.

"Please do!" she replied.

The older gentleman reverently lifted the leaf from its bed, the delicate, silver chain glinting in the light as Jordan gathered her hair and held it away from her neck. Gregory fastened the clasp behind Jordan's slender neck. The moment it touched her skin, the warmth was unmistakable. Not hot enough to burn, but enough to be noticed. Touching it again, Jordan was surprised to find it cool to the touch.

_Curiouser and curiouser_ Jordan thought as she turned to Duncan.

"What do you think, Duncan - is it me?" she asked. Unbeknownst to Jordan, the emerald leaf made her eyes glitter in a most becoming way. Duncan looked appraisingly at the necklace and decided it somehow looked right on her.

"Yes, Jordie, I believe it's a keeper." The older Immortal replied. Smiling at the men, Jordan hurried over to a mirror to inspect her gift; she met Gregory's eyes in the mirror, and again wondered why he watched her so closely.

"Thank you, Gregory. It's beautiful and I love it!" the younger Immortal exclaimed as she clutched the leaf to her bosom. It was her first truly expensive piece of jewelry.

"No, Miss Waters, it is I who should thank you for accepting it. Sometimes we need a link to find that person we're meant for." Gregory said; his eyes boring into hers.

_This evening is becoming very strange_. Jordan thought as the old gentleman turned to his host.

"Well then; my presence is no longer required here. It is time for me to go. Dear Jordan, please come and walk an old man out."

Almost skipping in her pleasure, Jordan hurried over to Gregory and took his arm. Reaching the door, she looked up at him and placed a gentle kiss upon his cheek.

"Thank you, Gregory. " the Immortal said with all sincerity. With a brief smile and a kiss on her cheek, Gregory stepped out the door. Jordan closed it softly behind him.

"Oh, I forgot to ask him what kind of tree this is from!" she exclaimed as she opened the door again; somehow Jordan wasn't surprised to find the hallway empty.

The next day, after another rigorous morning of more flexibility and strength training, a full contact sparring session with the Highlander followed– which Jordan of course, lost. To console herself, Jordan decided to indulge her sweet tooth. Quickly un-plaiting her hair, Jordan ran her fingers thru her decidedly damp raven tresses and shook it out to dry. Strolling towards the convenience store near Duncan's loft, Jordan hurriedly buttoned her overcoat before entering, to avoid questions as to why she was armed to the teeth. After selecting and paying for her candies, the Immortal stuffed them into her overcoat pockets as she exited outside, slowly savoring her Reese's peanut butter cup.

Turning her face up to the sun, Jordan was enjoying the gentle warmth of its rays when a sudden gust of wind blew her damp hair into her eyes.

_Jordan Waters..._ a soft voice whispered.

Puzzled, the Immortal tucked her hair behind her ears and looked to see who called her. The streets were eerily empty; not a bird or other sound could be heard—the place felt as if it was holding it's collective breath. An ominous feeling took over Jordan and she noticed her neck felt strangely hot; touching the Lothlórien leaf, Jordan discovered it to be the source of the increasing, pulsating heat. Suddenly, a bright light that came out of nowhere dazzled her, along with a feeling of intense nausea. Jordan stopped in her tracks and took slow, deep breaths to steady herself when her chocolate threatened to come back up; the ground beneath her felt uneven, her footing unsure as her head spun, her equilibrium oddly affected, then she was falling, falling, falling...putting her hands out - with a small cry, Jordan desperately struggled against the darkness that engulfed her.


	3. Run For Your Life

Darkness slowly gave way to consciousness as Jordan came to. Feeling like a jitney had struck her for the second time in her life, the Immortal's senses returned. Sound . . . awareness. . . sensation. . . . . pain. Unmoving, eyes closed, Jordan mentally did a body systems check. Save for a monumental headache, Jordan was physically intact. The throbbing pain in her head was reason enough for the woman to remain still while attempting to determine what exactly occurred. Surely the Highlander had come to her rescue (again) and laid her on the chaise lounge outside on the patio; however, the Immortal did not remember the cushions being so hard and uncomfortable.

_Not good; first the stabbing, now a fainting spell_. Jordan thought.

Drawing an unsteady breath, instead of the comforting smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the convenience store's deli, the scent of . . . soil – rich and moist filled the woman's nose; the Immortal wondered if Duncan had recently fertilized his plants.

_No_, she decided, _ . . . it can't be, for it'd smell like dung._

Eyes closed, Jordan frowned and listened; Jordan realized there was no accompanying rattle of dishes and flatware being washed. There was no music coming from the Highlander's sound system, nor was the television reporting the news. Instead of automobile traffic, came the sound of many leaves rustling in a soft breeze; songbirds, not seagulls called. She faintly heard the sound of running water. Slowly opening her eyes, Jordan blinked against the sudden brightness; instead of brick and concrete structures, she was looking up at an immense canopy of green towering above her, a bit of the blue sky peeked thru the lacy foliage. Her eyes darted about in alarm.

_Duncan doesn't have a whole slew of trees on his patio._ Jordan thought, bewildered.

She wasn't on a lounge in the Highlander's patio, nor was she lying on the concrete sidewalk outside the convenience store, but on the mossy, leaf covered floor of a . . . forest. With a groan, the Jordan forced herself to roll over on all fours; she paused, waiting for a wave of dizziness to pass. In her clenched right hand, the smashed remains of her peanut butter cup squished through her fingers, rapidly melting from the heat of her hand.

"Waste not, want not." She murmured before eating the remains of her candy.

_ I should've bought a sandwich instead._ Jordan thought ruefully.

"Duncan . . . ?" She tentatively called out. "This isn't funny anymore. If this if part of my training, don't you think it's a bit much?"

Jordan rubbed the back of her head and stretched the cords of her neck, relieved when it helped ease the pain. The sound of birds calling ceased for a moment then resumed. Hearing no voices, the Immortal determined she was indeed alone - At least for the moment.

"Okay, this is obviously another test. Maybe he wants to see if I remember how to live off the land. Fine." She muttered to herself.

Knowing Duncan would show himself when he deemed the time right, Jordan climbed to her feet, unconcerned but thoroughly annoyed with the whole scenario. Dusting herself off, she found her weapons intact. Better yet, her chocolates were still in her overcoat pockets! Jordan combed her fingers through her long hair, trying unsuccessfully to undo the tangles. Looking around, the Immortal would've been delighted with her surroundings, had it not been for the unusual circumstances.

"There's something . . . different about this place." Jordan whispered to herself. There was an ancient, primeval feeling in the air, accentuated by the hazy sunlight filtering through the leaves. She didn't remember being in this part of the woods in Seacouver.

_ This must be a location only Duncan knows. Why can't I feel him?_ Jordan thought to herself.

Confident the Highlander would find her, Jordan decided to explore, knowing the Buzz would alert her to Duncan's presence, and vice versa. She considered which direction to take. Deciding to go west, the Immortal was thankful for her well worn, knee-length black boots, which were padded by thick cotton socks.

_At least I won't get blisters…hopefully_.

Listening closely and enjoying the sounds of the forest, Jordan walked at a leisurely pace, her booted footsteps made little noise. Feeling thirsty, Jordan followed the sound of water.

_Where there's water, there should be people._

Jordan walked on, certain she'd have the last laugh and prove to the Highlander that though he could plunk her down in the middle of the forest, her (at least in her own mind) excellent sense of direction would lead her back to civilization. She still couldn't figure out how or why she fainted; Jordan had never fainted before in her life - unless she counted the time when Duncan first told her about her Immortality. But that didn't count.

Remembering Duncan's admonition to be ever alert, Jordan listened to the sounds around her, noting the absence of the Buzz. By the position of the sun, the Immortal estimated she had been walking for almost two hours. When the sun began its downward descent, Jordan tried to quell the mild sense of unease.

_Great. It's been over forty years since I had to start a fire, and I'm not even sure where I am; never mind that I don't have anything to start it with! _ Coming to a small stream, Jordan pursed her lips and considered the water. Cupping her hands together, she was about to drink, but hesitated.

_I wonder what kind of germs, microbes and other nastiest are in the water? A filtration kit would be nice_. _ It may not kill me, but it could make me really sick. Oh well."_ Jordan said softly to herself.

Grimacing, her thirst was greater than her concern, and she took a drink, bracing herself. Surprised at the sweet, clear taste, the Immortal readily drank her fill, and splashed the cool water onto her face and neck. Refreshed, the woman resumed her walk; Jordan hadn't gone far when she heard the rapid approach of many heavy footsteps. Hiding behind a tree, she watched as the owners came into view and almost laughed out loud.

_I must be on candid camera. The make up crew of this flick is amazing. Well, I'm not about to get yelled at for ruining this take. _Jordan thought, convinced she would be in the camera's sights.

Looking around her, Jordan carefully searched the landscape, her eyes narrowed in concentration. She did not see the production crew - no camera booms, key grips or best boys were in sight. The large group of actors came to a halt about 300 yards away and appeared to be having a rather heated discussion, their words carried on the wind muffled and guttural sounding - no doubt caused by the prosthetics they wore. Lest she be caught, fined for trespassing or worse yet, escorted from the location set, the Immortal deemed it best to leave unnoticed; too late did Jordan hear the snap of the twig as she turned. The Immortal was suddenly lifted off the ground by her throat; her back slammed with great force against the tree she was hiding behind. Jordan's breath whooshed painfully out of her. Clutching the thick wrist at her throat in an effort to ease the painful grip, Jordan's feet dangled a good foot off the ground; the Immortal was unable to draw a breath. Jordan clawed at the thick fingers tightening around her neck. This actor was taking his role far too seriously.

_The makeup and costume department did their jobs well_. she couldn't help but notice.

The eyes were yellow, with strange pupils, the skin charred and he reeked with the unmistakable stench of decay and some other unidentifiable odor. Fanged, crooked teeth appeared as its lips drew back in a snarl; dirty, matted hair clung to it's scalp. The Jordan's eyes were starting to bulge and her lungs screamed for air. It was definitely time to teach him some manners. The Immortal dug her thumbs into her attacker's eyes and lashed out with her foot, catching him in the groin. He howled, doubled over in pain, clutching his face as he dropped her. Jordan rolled away, gasping for breath as she rubbed her bruised throat, a torrent of choice swear words ready at her lips. Except the actor now held a strange looking scimitar and was coming straight at her.

"I've got one, too." Jordan croaked. The actor spoke, but the prosthetics made his words a guttural snarl.

Pulling out her Katana, Jordan deflected the blow. They circled each other warily.

"Look, I didn't ruin the take, and I'm sorry if I was in the way - I'll leave, and no one will know any better. I won't even ask for an autograph." She said, trying to appease the actor. Instead, he came at her again. This time, there was more force behind his blow.

"Look - I don't want to ruin your costume, but you're asking for it, buddy." She warned.

The Immortal sliced at his abdomen with her own return strike. Her Katana easily slashed thru the tough leather into the flesh below; Jordan couldn't help but feel a glimmer of satisfaction. The growl of pain from the actor was unlike anything she'd heard man utter. Jordan glanced at the blood coating her blade; it was thick, black and viscous, not red. Hoping it was part of the makeup, she blocked another thrust, ducking and lightly stepping aside as he swung his scimitar at her head. Now she was angry.

"I can play rough, too." Jordan said, grabbing a shuriken.

Tucking her back leg high for maximum impact, the Immortal launched into a jumping round kick; whirling, she followed thru with her shuriken, slashing his cheek in one efficient move. As he shrieked in pain, Jordan's eyes grew wide in disbelief as more of the dark blood welled from the deep cut she inflicted.

"Whoa—this is real! He must be a scout." Jordan whispered to herself.

She needed to end this quick, before his friends came. Horrified, Jordan quickly beheaded the creature; its black blood sprayed in pulsating bursts, some of it splashed onto her as the body fell to the ground. Not waiting to see how long it took his companions to discover him missing and find her, Jordan quickly flicked the tarry blood from her blade. The Immortal sheathed her Katana and shuriken as she turned and sprinted away as swiftly and silently as she could.

_Duncan! Where the hell are you?!_ Jordan thought desperately as she ran. Ducking beneath tree limbs, heedless of her direction, the Immortal dared not look over her shoulder; she needed to put as much distance between herself and those . . . things.

Behind her, she could hear animal-like grunts, screeches and the sound of undergrowth crunching and branches snapping. They were closing in, the sounds growing closer. Fear gave her the speed she needed, but even then, she was starting to tire. Running had never been a favorite sport or activity for Jordan; it did not help matters her footwear was ill suited for her current need. The Immortal knew she was in trouble; she couldn't outrun them, and Jordan was unfamiliar with the terrain.

"_So be it_." Jordan thought grimly.

Coming to a stop in a small clearing, the thoroughly winded woman braced her hands on her knees and took a moment to catch her breath, not bothering to brush away the hair plastered to her sweaty face – there was no time. Quickly she readied more shuriken in one hand and gripped her Katana in the other. Raising her sword to her lips, it gleamed in the sunlight as she placed a kiss on the blade above the hilt.

_My friend and defender._ Eyes closed, Jordan cleared her mind, breathing in deeply and slowly, willing her heart and pulse rate to slow, preparing herself...

Focused on the coming battle, Jordan did not notice the leaf suspended around her neck began to glow. The creatures were almost upon her. As they appeared in the clearing, a brilliant flash of light momentarily blinded her pursuers; strangely, Jordan wasn't affected. Using it to her advantage, the Immortal drew back and threw a sidearm fastball, swiftly letting fly four of her shurikens, pleased when they imbedded themselves in their targets.

The horrific creatures clutched their throats as they fell to the ground, where they lay twitching then stilled. Enraged to see their fallen companions, the remaining creatures rushed towards the frightened Immortal, their weapons drawn as the bright light faded.

The War of the Ring is over. The Dark Lord Sauron defeated. Through the free lands still roamed renegade bands of Orcs and Uruk-hai - the scattered remnants of the Dark Army once commanded by the White Wizard Saruman, before his defeat at the hands of Gandalf the White.

Mounted on a white stallion sat Legolas, son of Thranduil, King of Mirkwood; Gimli, son of Gloin sat on the smaller gelding that carried their supplies. The two Members of the Fellowship, en route to the Last Homely House west of the Mountains, to the Elven land of Rivendell, paused when Legolas' heightened senses prickled with awareness, warning him. Listening to the whispers of the trees, Legolas murmured,

"There is a strange presence in the woods, danger is near." A bright flash of light caught their attention. Gimli harrumphed and said to his companion,

"What say you we look for the source of yonder light? Tis been a while since we've had some adventure."

Turning his head, Legolas flashed the Dwarf a half smile; the gleam in the handsome Elf's eyes belied his eagerness. Whispering Elvish words into his mount's ear, Arod snorted in response and broke into a swift gallop towards the flash of light. Tied to Arod, Gimli's mount kept pace. As they neared, the sounds of combat greeted them. Without a backwards glance to the Elf, Gimli fell off his mount's back and rolled to his feet, his battle-axe drawn and held ready as he sprinted towards the sounds; the Dwarf's enthusiasm for battle was shared by his companion.

Legolas leapt off Arod's back as well, nocking his great war-bow – a cherished gift from Lady Galadriel herself, without breaking his stride. What greeted them was a quite a sight, indeed. Before them was a slip of a Man, more likely a youth, with exceptionally long hair battling two Orcs simultaneously. It was a decidedly uneven match, for the Orcs were sporting with the youth; in order to prolong their amusement with their newfound plaything, the fell companions did not converge upon the Man, but waited a short distance away, closing the gap between them and the combatants, snarling their impatience while waiting for their chance to jump into the fray.

There was something about the scene before him troubled the Elf. He noted the bodies of slain Orcs, yet the youth was apparently alone. Legolas wondered where the stranger's companion was. Slain? Mayhap that was the reason the youth was left to fight by himself, the Wood Elf mused. Spying the two arrivals, the waiting Orcs rushed to engage them, weapons drawn, bloodlust in their evil eyes.

"They're mine!" roared Gimli, as he fearlessly rushed to meet the oncoming Orcs.

Knowing the Dwarf was in no immediate danger, Legolas took the opportunity to study the stranger's unusual fighting style, his bow at the ready. The Orc on the Man's right was about to deal him a fatal blow to the ribs when Legolas shot him with a well-placed arrow. He watched as the Man ran the other Orc thru with his unusual sword. Perhaps the Man possessed some skill with the sword after all.

Driven by the fierce will to survive, Jordan fought the creature before her; however, she was unused to fighting multiple opponents for extended periods of time. After all, only one Immortal at a time is allowed to challenge another.

_The rules of the Game obviously don't apply here,_ she thought to herself.

Arms aching, her hair and body drenched in sweat, Jordan was beginning to tire, her return strikes more defensive than offensive when she felt the Buzz of Duncan's arrival; the woman could've cried with relief when the creature on her right sprouted an arrow from its head before falling to the ground. The others had thankfully rushed off to engage Duncan. Fighting with renewed energy, Jordan doggedly concentrated on the one before her.

_He's strong_. The Immortal grudgingly thought as she blocked a strike aimed at her ribs.

The Orc's momentary distraction with his companion's demise gave her the opportunity she needed; Jordan brought her blade up and ran him thru the abdomen with her Katana. Breathing hard, she allowed herself a grim smile of satisfaction as he let out a shriek; it quickly disappeared when he grabbed the blade, pulling it—and her—closer, before he backhanded her across the face. The blow snapped Jordan's head around and sent her spinning to the ground, where she landed hard.

_You really do see stars._ she thought, dazed.

Shaking her head to clear her vision, Jordan desperately wanted nothing more than to rest and catch her breath, but the creature above her had an arrow in its throat, and was in the process of falling on top of her. Not wanting to get impaled so soon after her recent revival, the Immortal forced her tired limbs to move. Scrambling away, Jordan didn't get far as she was firmly yet gently pulled away and set on her feet. Her exhaustion was replaced by righteous anger that infused her body with renewed strength as she turned to give Duncan a well-deserved tongue-lashing.

"Duncan-"

Only it wasn't Duncan who stood before her. Shocked, the Immortal took an involuntary step backwards and stumbled over the dead creature's body. She would've fallen again, if her rescuer hadn't reached out and steadied her. Her rescuer was, for lack of a better word, simply gorgeous.

_Perfection_. her mind whispered.

The man's features were flawless, symmetrical, unblemished, and…beautiful, yet masculine. Tall, lean of build, his long, blonde hair was drawn back, away from his forehead; at each temple were smaller braids, keeping his hair neatly away from his face. However, it was his eyes that held her. Strikingly blue, they made her think of the sky and the ocean on a warm summer day. Dressed in silvery brown clothes, with knee-high boots, he held a large bow in his left hand; Jordan could see the fletching peeking from behind his shoulder. That explained the arrows in the creatures.

_I hope his name isn't Aries_. a detached part of her mind thought.

Catching sight of his companion, Jordan noted he was about a foot shorter than she. Stocky and powerfully built, he had a great mass of coarse, reddish-brown hair, making it difficult to tell where his hair ended and his beard began. Confused, Jordan looked around, expecting to see Duncan, but it was only the three of them, and the dead bodies littering the forest floor.


	4. Another Time, Another Place

Another time, Another Place

"Are you all right?" The tall man asked her; his quiet voice was somehow soothing at the same time.

The Immortal, attempting to rationalize how the four words could possibly sound so wonderful coming from his lips, realized he expected a reply. Jordan could only nod 'yes' as she gingerly worked her sore jaw.

"Well, Laddie, how many to your count? I have six!" the gruff voice behind them sounded oddly gleeful.

"Two." Replied the tall man; turning back to look at his companion, Jordan caught a glimpse of his pointed ear; her eyes widened in disbelief.

_This is just getting better and better_ Jordan thought, without trying to stifle her grin.

"My lady, seeing as we are comrades in arms, perhaps we'd best know your name." The shorter man addressed Jordan.

Squinting up at her, the stocky fellow's eyes were almost hidden beneath two enormously bushy eyebrows. Jordan smiled wider as she got a better look at the sturdy fellow; his ruddy complexion, gravelly voice and gruff manner is the exact opposite of his tall companion. Jordan wondered where in Scotland the short man was from -his brogue so much like Duncan's, but more pronounced.

"My name is Jordan Waters, and . . . I'm not in Seacouver, Washington anymore, am I?" she replied.

"Seacouver, Washington? Nay, Lady; you are in the northern most outskirts of Trollshaw Forest. I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, and this is Gimli, son of Glóin. We journey to the Elven land of Rivendell; mayhap you should accompany us." The tall, beautiful One suggested, looking around.

_Elves?! Oookay, that's rich. I'm going to wake up any moment now and discover I've stumbled into the Twilight Zone_ Jordan thought to herself.

The Immortal doubted she was in any serious trouble; however, she wanted to ensure they did not get any ideas – just in case.

"I'm not alone." Jordan said quickly, attempting to sound more confident than she felt.

She bristled at the way the Beautiful Man's eyebrow raised slightly. The Elf was highly doubtful a lone woman is solely responsible for the carnage before him, yet the trees whispered to him, confirming this Jordan Waters is the strange presence they spoke of, and - save for the woman and Orcs, no one else had passed thru the woods. A puzzled expression marred Legolas' perfect, serene countenance as he surveyed the gory clearing.

"Where is your companion?" he asked.

"He's . . . err, somewhere near." Jordan replied; "I'm sure he'll be here soon." She added hastily.

"Lady Waters, save for you, Gimli and myself, there is no one here."

"How do you know that?" she asked, suspicious.

"I know it." Legolas answered.

"How do you know it?" she persisted.

"The trees said it was so." The Elf patiently explained.

The Immortal looked at him with a dubious expression on her face; his answer was so matter-of-fact, that he might as well have said trees could walk. More alarming is that Jordan honestly believed the Elf would believe it. This was getting old really fast. She wondered if he hugged trees as well as talked with them. He must be the Dr. Doolittle of the botanical variety. Great.

_He talks to trees . . . No – the trees talk to him. Gorgeous and crazy; too bad._ Jordan bit her lip, uncertain how to proceed. Gesturing to the dead creatures, Legolas spoke.

"Orcs yet roam the land. Lord Elrond will wish to know they are ranging closer to Rivendell. You will come with us." The Elf decided.

Searching their faces, Jordan nodded slowly; it did not appear she had a whole lot of choice in the matter. More importantly, the woman did not want to be alone in a strange land, with even stranger creatures when night came. Like it or not, she had to go along with this charade, at least for now.

"I need to collect my stars before we go." Jordan acquiesced.

After gathering her last shuriken and tucking it away, Jordan went to the dead Orc and pulled free the two arrows Legolas shot, examining them quickly before handing them to the Elf; she did not see a manufacturer's logo on the shafts. The Elf accepted the projectiles wordlessly, his bright eyes never leaving Jordan's face. He noticed the woman seemed preoccupied; she appeared to be looking for someone, perhaps her companion, surely this 'Dung Can' who had abandoned her to her fate, but there was none alive, save the woman, the Dwarf and himself.

"Thank you, Legolas and Gimli for taking me with you to the Elven land called 'Rivendell.'" Jordan said rather loudly as she glanced towards the tree line.

Rolling the last Orc over with her foot, Jordan freed her Katana with a grunt and flicked the tarry, black flood from its blade, wiping off what remained on the creature's clothing - unmindful of the Elf watching her every move. The Immortal dawdled in order to give the Highlander more time to join the odd party. Waiting patiently, the shorter man cleaned his axe. Jordan's ire increased a notch; her Mentor chose to remain hidden. Legolas smiled, for the woman all but bellowed the words. Unfortunately, it was but a wasted effort on her part. Gimli gave the Elf a look that spoke volumes. With a barely perceptible shake of his head, Legolas motioned for the Dwarf to remain silent. The Elf was going to enjoy the ride to Rivendell even more, now that they had acquired a new, albeit curious, traveling companion.

_I'll get you for this, Duncan_. Jordan seethed inwardly, imagining the payback she'd give.

Satisfied she left nothing behind, Jordan squared her shoulders and looked expectantly at Legolas. The Elf pursed his lips and gave a piercing whistle; on cue, the sound of hoof beats could be heard. Into the clearing galloped two horses, a white and brown one. Jordan noticed the white one didn't have a saddle; the other did and was laden with packs. Helping his stout companion onto the brown horse, Legolas spoke softly to his mount.

"You will ride with me." He said, holding his hand out to her.

Jordan hesitated. Although she loved horses, she much preferred admiring them from afar; riding them an entirely different story. Seeing her reticence, Legolas assured her

"Arod is quite gentle, and I am with you. Do not fear, my Lady."

Jordan looked hopefully at the tree line one last time, scanning the area, sending a silent plea for her Mentor to show himself, before turning back to the Elf. Taking his hand, a small jolt of electricity passed between them. Jordan almost snatched her hand away, had he not held it firmly as he led her to his horse. She wondered if he felt it too. Glancing up at him, the Immortal was captivated how the beautiful blue of his eyes had darkened to grey, before changing back.

_Its so unfair – why do guys always get the most amazing eyes?_ she wondered to herself, mesmerized.

Realizing she was staring, Jordan flushed before she turned to study the horse. The Immortal wondered how on earth she was to get on the horse's back without something to stand on, when Legolas drew her closer, then grasped her waist and lifted her as if she weighed no more than a feather. Mortified and mightily impressed with the Elf's strength, Jordan found herself atop the horse.

_That's it, no more chocolate_ she vowed.

Seated astride, Jordan stole a glance at Legolas, their eyes meeting again. Blushing furiously, she looked away, pretending to scan the horizon and missing the smile on Legolas' face. With a graceful leap, the Elf mounted the horse and took his place behind her. Reaching around her to grasp the reins, Jordan felt his warm breath stirring the hair by her ear; the sensation caused a pleasant shiver to race down her spine. Needing something to do with her hands, Jordan began to braid tiny sections of Arod's mane. As Jordan braided, she studied Legolas' hands: masculine yet elegant, his long fingers and nail beds surprisingly clean. With a last glance at the clearing, Jordan took a deep breath in as Legolas urged his mount forward. She hoped Duncan was safe, wherever he is.

Riding beside them, Gimli proved to be quite an entertaining travel companion. The conversation flowed, and the Immortal was relieved he did not ask questions about her, or her odd situation. When they would occasionally lapse into companionable silence, Jordan took the opportunity to study the passing scenery until something caught the short man's attention, reminding the stout fellow of a past exploit or adventure, and he would regale Jordan with stories of his and Legolas' travels and experiences - to which she only listened to half. The Immortal's increasing discomfort was all she could focus on; the jarring motion of the horse as they traveled was agony on her backside, and the effort of sitting up straight only increased her discomfort. Needing an armrest, Jordan hoped the Elf wouldn't mind when she rested her forearms atop his. Studying the designs on his wrist guards, Jordan's fingers lightly traced the tooling on the leather bracers that covered Legolas' arms from wrist to just below the elbows. She found herself Jordan wondering what it would feel like to be held in his arms.

_Stop that!_ Jordan sternly told herself.

_You're acting hormonal! You don't know him. No one this fabulous looking could possibly be heterosexual._ she thought. Knowing her luck, the odd couple are lovers kind enough to lend a hand to a Stranger in distress.

"That is the great Tree of Greenwood, symbolizing my home of Mirkwood; my father is the King of the woodland realm." Legolas spoke softly into Jordan's ear. For reasons unknown, the Elf was strangely pleased that this stranger took an interest in his belongings.

_Hmm. Gorgeous and a 'Prince' to boot. This is definitely a fairy tale._ The Immortal thought.

"I've never seen anything like this." Jordan said softly.

"Perhaps I will show it to you one day." Legolas said; his warm breath felt like a lover's caress on the Immortal's cheek.

Jordan did not plan to remain in Middle-earth long enough to see this 'Mirkwood', not if she could help it - but the Immortal did not tell the Elf that. As they rode on, the woman shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. Riding a horse – bareback no less – was definitely harder than she ever imagined; there was no buffer to cushion the inside of her thighs (which was protesting the continuous motion of the horse beneath), and the lack of padding also made the Immortal acutely aware of the fact that she wasn't the riding type. Exhausted from the day's exertions and determined to ignore the discomfort she was feeling, Jordan closed her eyes. In her mind, the woman replayed the past events, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together; she wondered how she happened to get caught up in a fantasy novel. Before she knew it, Jordan dozed off, and her body relaxed against the Elf. Feeling the change in her posture, Legolas adjusted the awkward position of the woman's body against him, cradling her as best he could so she would be more comfortable. The Wood Elf studied the sleeping woman he held in his arms. As for the Crown Prince, rarely was the Elf surprised; however, when he and the Dwarf arrived at the clearing and assisted the stranger, Legolas expected a relieved man, not the flashing, angry eyes of a proud female. The position of Jordan's head exposed the skin of her neck, which looked soft and inviting. As he contemplated the texture of her skin, unable to contain his curiosity, Legolas breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of her Jordan's skin. He detected the scent of sandalwood and strawberries, a different but not unpleasant combination. It was unique. Legolas picked out the leaves and twigs from her dark hair, loosening the mud from its dark strands. Continuing his assessment of the strange woman, the Elf's brow creased; he frowned when he saw the corner of her lip was caked with dried blood and the deepening bruise on her cheek where the Orc struck her.

The Mirkwood Elf could not ever remember seeing a mortal woman fight as well or as skillfully as this Jordan Waters did—especially when he realized the stranger to be a woman. Not even the Shield Maiden of Rohan could compare to this Daughter of Man, who possessed several skills worthy of a warrior: her striking eyes the color of grass shone with courage and intelligence, she did not simper or cower in front of strangers, but held herself with confidence. Despite the Manly traits (and the decidedly unfeminine name) she possessed, Jordan fortunately did have undeniably feminine features, as well as the heart of a woman. The Mirkwood Elf is well aware of the effect he has on maidens both Elven and human alike - and much to the Wood Elf's dismay, even some Men. Jordan was neither indifferent, nor uninterested, for Legolas saw the blush that crept into the woman's cheeks when he caught her staring at him. What startled the noble Elf was that fact that it was mutual. So disturbed by the realization, he immediately turned his thoughts elsewhere.

Is this Jordan Waters, in fact, the source of the light they saw? The Wood Elf had not thought to ask the trees. Why is she here, what is her purpose, and who is this 'Dung Can' she calls for? The Stranger's weapons are unlike any he had seen in all of his travels, yet she wielded them with ease and familiarity. Her manner of speech and clothing is odd, yet . . . he was drawn to her. Legolas' curiosity was piqued. There would be time enough for answers. With the sun rapidly sinking, they must make camp for the night and rest the horses, before continuing on to Rivendell at first light with all haste. After finding a suitable spot for the night, Gimli set about making a makeshift pallet; cradling the slumbering woman in his arms, Legolas dismounted and carried the Immortal to where the Dwarf waited.

"Well, lad, I shall see what fruit and berries your beloved forest has to offer us. Mayhap you should stay with our guest." Without another word, the Dwarf disappeared into the trees.

Setting Jordan down gently and satisfied she was comfortable for the moment, Legolas went about gathering firewood and the material needed for kindling. Striking flint together, a spark flew and the tinder smoldered before the combustible material finally caught fire. Legolas expertly fed the flames until a sizeable fire blazed to life. Sitting across from Jordan, through the dancing flames the Elf watched the pretty puzzle sleep. His keen eyes studied her; the woman's face was smudged with dirt and Orc blood. Given the extent of her injuries, it should have been worse - far worse; Orcs and others of their ilk were known to use and abuse women and she-Elves for sport in the worst possible ways; the females seldom lasted long during the brutal, violent and degrading assaults. What mystified the Elf is the punishing blow the Orc delivered to Jordan's face; by all rights, it should have broken her jaw, yet Jordan had mere scratches on her face. Legolas continued to ponder how this mere woman could fight as well as a man, as he turned his attention to his gear, inspecting his bow and arrows. The shadows had lengthened considerably when Gimli returned with wild apples, an assortment of berries, and a brace of fat, young coneys - rabbit-like creatures the Dwarf cleaned, dressed and had roasting over a spit in short order.

"How fares the lady?" The Dwarf asked the Elf as he sat beside his friend.

Legolas was saved from replying as Jordan let out a soft groan. Opening her eyes, the Immortal saw the odd couple still with her. Sniffing appreciatively, she also smelled what she hoped was dinner roasting over the fire. Slowly and painfully the woman sat up; her sore body reminding her every inch on the way up of her recent ordeal. Jordan was pleasantly startled when she felt Legolas' strong arm behind her back, and a gentle hand by her elbow as he helped her up. Trying not to gape at him, the Immortal smiled her thanks. One minute the Beautiful One was on the other side of the fire, the next instant he was helping her sit up.

_I didn't see him move!_ She thought, impressed. Legolas studied her closely.

"Come, there is a small stream not far from here. Your wounds must be tended." Feeling self-conscious, Jordan's cheeks burned with embarrassment. She resisted the urge to run her hands thru her hair.

_I must look awful_! Jordan thought wryly, as the Elf helped her stand.

Gimli tossed Legolas a small leather satchel as he led Jordan away. Coming to a stream, Jordan gingerly lowered herself onto a large rock at the water's edge, wincing at her sore bottom. Hunkering down in front of her, Legolas took a cloth out of the satchel, and dipped it into the cool water. Gently cupping her face, the Elf felt the small jolt of electricity again. Ignoring it, he concentrated on his task as the woman studied him intently.

"What are you?" Jordan asked softly without thinking.

Legolas paused in his task; the Prince did not know how to respond to her question. He was not surprised the woman did not immediately recognize one of the First Born, for Elves seldom sought the company of Men. Legolas did, however, expect her to be familiar with the fact of the Fair Ones' existence, given the Alliance between the Races, and certain distinctive physical traits characteristic of Elves. Since she knew neither, the Wood Elf decided to overlook her ignorance.

"I am an Elf." He replied before continuing his task.

"You're an Elf." Jordan repeated. Legolas nodded solemnly.

"If you're an Elf, is Gimli a Gnome?" the Immortal asked; the Wood Elf put the cloth down and studied her, searching her face, wondering if she purposely is making sport of them. The woman's sincere question and genuinely puzzled expression made Legolas raise an eyebrow.

"Gimli is a Dwarf." He corrected her, resuming his task.

"Oh." Jordan said, falling silent once more. It didn't last long as she had another question in mind.

"What do you call this place?" she asked.

"Middle-earth." The Elf replied, watching her reaction. She seemed deeply troubled.

"And you are a stranger to this land." he said quietly.

Jordan smiled. It didn't take a whole lot of genius to figure that out.

_Actually I'm from a galaxy far, far away_ Jordan wanted to say. A thousand replies came to her mind before finally settling on a suitable reply. The Immortal cautiously answered her Elf-nurse.

"Yes, I come from a very far land, and I'm not really sure how I got here."

_There, I'm not lying but what do I say next? 'Take me to your leader'?_ She wondered to herself as Legolas continued to dress her wounds. As he worked, Jordan took the opportunity to study him.

_How is it possible for his face to be both beautiful and masculine at the same time_? She wondered. It was a paradox.

_Timeless—like a living sculpture. I wonder how old is he? I could stare at him forever._ she thought.

Jordan's sharp intake of breath told Legolas that her lip was especially tender.

"My apologies. I do not wish to cause you further pain, my lady." Legolas said.

"I do not wish that either." Jordan responded with a smile. Legolas' lips twitched briefly as well.

Taking great care, the Elf continued to gently bathe Jordan's face. Reaching into the satchel, the Mirkwood Prince pulled out a small wooden box. Opening the hinged lid, Legolas dipped an index finger into the clear, odorless ointment.

"I'll be fine – you really don't need to do that." Jordan demurred.

"This salve will ease the pain. The Healers at Rivendell are noted for their skills." Legolas said as he smoothed it over the woman's cheek. Satisfied, the Elf inspected the woman's face.

Jordan's left cheek, though discolored, appeared lighter than when he first observed it; the Mirkwood Prince briefly wondered how that was possible as he inspected the rest of her person. His gaze lingered on her coral lips; despite the amount of blood he'd bathed away, there was no cut at the corner of her mouth. In fact, the skin was unbroken.

Legolas thought it very odd. Perhaps he'd been mistaken about her injury; however, the battle-seasoned Elf was certain what he saw. With his own eyes – eyes capable of telling the difference between a finch and a sparrow from a league away - the Elf witnessed the Orc strike the woman; that her lip was whole defied explanation. Puzzled, Legolas pushed it to the back of his mind as he met Jordan's steady gaze. The vivid green was a rarity among mortal women, especially with hair as black as the night and skin that, though fair, is unlike the flawless porcelain of the Elves, nor like that of the Horse Lords of the Riddermark. Of all the Races the Elf encountered in his wide travels, Legolas had not seen anyone quite like Jordan Waters; yes, he decided, this unusual beauty is indeed very fair to look upon - for a Daughter of Man.

"Thank you, your Highness." Jordan said softly; perhaps it was well and good that she remained unaware of the Elf's assessment.

"Legolas, my lady." The Mirkwood Elf replied. One day he would rule in his father's stead; for now the Prince had every intention of enjoying his time unfettered by the crown.

"Then please, call me Jordan." She replied.

As graceful as a cat, Legolas rose and held his hand out to her. When Jordan took it, they both felt the sensation again. Helping the woman up, the Wood Elf noted the stiffness with which she moved.

"I'm not much of a rider." The Immortal offered by way of explanation.

Looking up at him, Jordan smiled. Legolas smiled in return, making her heart skip a beat, though he said nothing. His silence made the woman nervous; fearful of saying something foolish, Jordan remained silent; the Immortal noted he hadn't removed his hand from the small of her back. When they returned, Gimli was seated near the campfire, puffing away on a pipe; the acrid smell assaulted Jordan's nose. Apparently the Elf didn't care for the nasty habit, either, for he frowned in disapproval. Spying them, the Dwarf gave no indication he cared one whit what the Elf thought, for he continued to puff away contentedly on his pipe before he spoke.

"So, there is a woman there beneath all that dirt." Gimli said, with a hearty grin.

At least Jordan was fairly certain it was a grin; it was difficult to tell with all the coarse, red hair that covered a great portion of his face. Wincing as she smiled at him, Jordan took a seat across from the Dwarf. Passing tin plates around, Gimli continued to speak.

"I'll have you know the courtesy of the Dwarves has not dwindled, though our numbers have. Eat up Lass, then ye can tell us how ye came about fighting Orcs on your own."

Gimli's voice had a Scot-like burr to it; the familiar sound once again reminded Jordan of Duncan. She missed the Highlander desperately and fervently hoped for the umpteenth time that her Teacher was safe - wherever he was. Despite the short fellow's gruff and brash manner, Jordan sensed the Dwarf had a kind heart. Taking a cautious bite of the stew, Jordan found its taste was similar to chicken, but with a subtle, gamey hint to it. Eating slowly, between bites, Jordan gave her unlikely companions the condensed version of her arrival; Gimli and Legolas listened without interrupting, and occasionally glancing at one another.

"…And that's when you came." Jordan finished her tale.

Legolas sensed a myriad of conflicting emotions radiating from her; given the circumstances, he decided there was nothing in her words to cause doubt. Everything about her testified to the fact she is, in fact, a stranger to Middle-earth.

"How is it you wield a sword with skill? Are women in your world Shield-Maidens?" Gimli asked. Jordan raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar term.

_Okay, that must mean a she-warrior or something. I can do Ebonics, medical jargon and plain English. I guess its time to brush up on my Queen's-Old-English English._ The Immortal thought; unfazed, Jordan answered.

"Not every woman. I'm from a class of people who are…competent with swords; we, uh, practice from time to time."

"Well, 'tis a good thing the pointy-ear and I came when we did, 'ere ye'd be in a bad way." The Dwarf said sternly. Jordan nodded solemnly in agreement; of that, she had no doubt at all.

As they finished their meal, the Immortal half-expected the Dwarf to wipe his mouth with the end of his coarse beard. She was strangely disappointed when the Gimli did not. Instead, he used his sleeve. Legolas, watching Jordan, gave her a small smile, rolling his eyes at his companion's decidedly rough ways. To stifle her laugh, Jordan took another bite of stew. The Dwarf took a long draught from his water skin and emitted an impressive belch before blotting his mouth with his wrist, before tossing the skin to Jordan, who caught it out of reflex. Thanking the Dwarf, Jordan swallowed the rest of her stew and resisted the urge to wipe the mouthpiece, before lifting the skin to her lips. The Immortal tried to not think about what germs the Dwarf may have – not that she'd catch any illness from him. Jordan took a small sip, and then offered it to Legolas, who declined with a shake of his head. Fluidly rising to his feet, the Elf walked to Gimli's mount and pulled out a cloak from one of the saddle packs.

"I shall take the first watch. Fangon (Bearded One), I trust you will see that she is comfortable."

Without a glance at the woman, Legolas turned away and melted into the forest as he fastened his cloak. Shooting the Elf a look of annoyance mingled with affection, Gimli told Jordan,

"Pay ye no heed to that, Jordan. The pointy-ear knows Dwarvish hospitality rivals that of Elves." Gimli muttered grouchily.

The latter part was said quite loudly and directed towards the trees. With a laugh, Jordan thanked Gimli for the meal and helped him tidy up. Returning to the stream, the Dwarf and the woman washed the dishes in the cold water, using clean sand to scour the plates, then set by the fire to dry before packing them away again. After banking the fire, Gimli and the Immortal settled down for the night. Soon snores came from the Dwarf's side. Jordan had a more difficult time falling asleep, especially since she is not a camping enthusiast. Twigs and rocks were digging into her back, the ground hard and cold, despite the thick woolen blankets she lay upon. In her mind's eye, Duncan's face appeared, filled with concern and worry for her. Intuition told her if indeed she is really in Middle-earth, she would not see the Highlander – possibly not for a very, very long time.

_Do you even know I'm gone?_ Jordan thought mournfully.

The woman viciously punched the rolled up spare cloak doubling as her makeshift pillow, in an effort to get comfortable. It was useless. The Immortal sat up; Jordan noticed the stiffness in her body had eased considerably, and her face did not feel as sore, either.

_I'm glad we heal quickly _ she thought.

As best she could in the dark, the Immortal inspected the bark for lizards, bugs and snakes, before leaning her back upon it. Jordan drew her knees up and rested her chin on them as she looked up at the vast, starry sky above.

_How do I get home?_ She wondered; the homesickness and fear washed over her full force.

Staring at the fire until the dancing flames became glowing embers, Jordan longed for the comforts of home. Without the light of the fire to drive the shadows back, the darkness closed in on her and the deepening shadows took on sinister shapes. Swallowing hard, Jordan's pulse quickened as her imagination worked overtime, conjuring more of the horrific Orc creatures lurking in the dark beyond, just waiting to sink their clawed hands into her once her eyes closed. There was something about the vast, open space that made her feel terribly insecure. The Immortal needed to feel the security of four solid walls around her; lacking that comforting assurance, she curled into a ball; the Immortal clutched her Katana close to her, ready to draw it if necessary. She jumped when the ominous hoot of an owl and the dry, brittle sound of leaves skittered along the forest floor in the night breeze; the hairs on the nape of Jordan's neck stood up as Dread's icy cold fingers leisurely stroked the back of her neck.

Forcing herself to breathe slowly and evenly, Jordan closed her eyes and recited nursery rhymes in her mind to distract herself. When that didn't work, thoughts of home and her cozy bedroom filled her mind. Instead of comforting her, the thoughts intensified the feelings of loss and uncertainty.

_Funny how you don't know what you've got till it's gone_ The Immortal thought ruefully to herself.

Thinking of what she missed helped her focus on something other than her vivid imaginings. Jordan missed the basic necessities: electricity, running water from the tap, and most of all - indoor plumbing. Born into privilege, the Immortal never had to go without toilet paper – until now. Though not one to wallow in self-pity, tonight the Immortal thought just this once it was completely justified. Feeling sorry for herself, Jordan sniffled before giving in to tears; her quiet sobs were masked by the Dwarf's loud snores. Drying her tears, Jordan felt somewhat better. The Immortal knew she had no choice but to make the best of the impossibly real situation. Rubbing her swollen eyes, the woman yawned hugely and tilted her head back against the tree and listened to the Dwarf snore. Despite herself, Jordan gave a small laugh, feeling just a touch hysterical with the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

"At least there aren't seven of you guys." Jordan muttered to herself.

Watching the glowing embers, Jordan wiped her eyes once more on her overcoat sleeves and sighed; the cathartic effect of her cry and her strange day made her red-rimmed, puffy eyes grow heavy with sleep. Jordan lay back down upon her pallet and closed her eyes.

The night had a thousand eyes, and many pairs of them – insect, mammalian and reptilian alike watched the Wood Elf pass as he silently patrolled the forest. Cocking an ear, the Prince listened to the quiet chirping of crickets; Legolas mentally cataloged the sounds of nocturnal creatures engaged in the trials of life unheard by mortal ears: amongst them was the whoosh of night owls winging their way thru the dark in search of a meal, and the prey they sought scurrying for shelter. The subtle change in the way the owl's wings beat the air informed Legolas a life was given up to perpetuate life. As the owl flew away with its meal, the Mirkwood Prince listened to the voices that Wood Elves are attuned to.

The trees sighed that all was well, and only because of the trusted sources of information did the Elf lower his guard. Legolas' thoughts turned to Jordan Waters. There was something about her; something about this odd woman's presence was strangely . . . soothing to him. Though Legolas pledged Jordan his assistance in returning 'home', the Elf was certain he did not want her to return . . . just yet; this Daughter of Man presented an intriguing mystery that demanded exploration.

After the War of the Ring, Legolas and Gimli traveled throughout Arda; together, the unlikely pair explored the wonders of Middle-Earth, reveling in the beauty they encountered, and sorrowing over the ugly scars war inflicted upon the land. As they neared the end of their journey, from the highest tower of the White City, Legolas caught his first glimpse of the sea. The faint cry of the gulls stirred the longing dormant in his heart, yet the siren call was not yet irresistible, for the Elf was determined to remain in Middle-earth for a time. What the Elf also discovered after his first glimpse of the sea was that he longed for…something.

The restlessness Legolas felt in his soul grew; so much so that the Elf often considered proposing that the Dwarf join him on yet another far-flung journey. However, the Mirkwood Prince was surprised to realize the restless feeling had all but disappeared with Jordan's appearance. Owing the reprieve to the woman's interesting . . . dilemma, Legolas thought no more of the matter. Instead, his mind wandered back to the moments when he and Jordan touched, and he felt 'It'. The Elf was troubled; the only other time Legolas felt the disconcerting sensation was with his first lover, Willröwyn. They were together for 100 years before she was slain by an Orc. Her death haunted him in the many seasons that followed. Since then, the Elf had taken numerous lovers during his long life, but he never forgot Willröwyn, and occasionally wondered about what might have been. To feel it again with a mortal was both disturbing and fascinating. Uneasy, Legolas put it out of his mind as he made his way back to camp. Jordan would be there. In the span of mere moments, he was inexplicably drawn to this strange woman's side. From her child like wonder at something so simple as his wrist bracers, to the unguarded delight in her surroundings, she captivated him. A maiden - a Daughter of Man, of all things.

Jordan was drifting off to sleep when she felt the Buzz. Her eyes flew open as she raised up on her elbows, her hand automatically reaching for her Katana. Hoping it was Duncan, Jordan was both thrilled and disappointed to see Legolas appear in the faint light of the glowing embers. He, on the other hand, was taken aback that she heard him. The only mortal who could hear an Elf approach is Aragorn; fostered by Elves and wed to the Evenstar, the King of Gondor is attuned to the Fair Ones' ways. That the woman was able to do so as well added another layer of mystery to Jordan Waters.

"You should be resting, Jordan; we ride at first light." Legolas said softly.

Silently making his way over to the Immortal, Legolas sat beside Jordan and studied her profile in the moonlight. Jordan didn't answer as she stared at the faintly glowing embers; long moments passed in silence before she finally spoke.

"Did you see anyone?" Jordan asked hopefully.

"Not a soul." Legolas replied.

"How far did you go?" she asked.

"Twelve miles in all directions." Jordan turned to look at him, her eyes wide, amazed.

"Did you really?" the Elf's steady gaze was all the answer she needed.

"Why do you not rest?" Legolas asked.

"I can't sleep. None of this makes sense. I keep thinking I'll wake up and find that this is all a weird, crazy dream—I mean, maybe I hit my head and have a concussion, and you're just the product of a medically induced coma, yet those…things, those Orcs back there are real. You're real. In my world, you exist only in children's fairy tales, and you're supposed to be this cute little thing that lives in trees and bakes cookies." Jordan knew she was babbling, but she couldn't help herself.

"I do not know what you speak of, but I assure you I am as real as you are. I do not have the answers you seek - I will help you find your way back, if that is what you wish." Jordan turned to look at him, doubt and hope mingling in her troubled eyes. Finally, a tentative smile reached her lips and died before it could be fully revealed.

"Legolas…what if more Orcs are still out there?" the Immortal asked with a shudder.

The Elf heard the uncertainty and fear in Jordan's voice; hesitating for a brief moment, Legolas put an arm around her shoulders drew her to him in a tight embrace. Jordan resisted for a moment before giving in, her arms going around him, her body trembling.

"Be at ease, Jordan. I will not let you come to harm. We are safe." Murmuring comforting words in Elvish, he continued to hold her, stroking her hair until she stilled.

_This is really too much_. The Immortal thought dismally, fighting the urge to give into more tears.

Perhaps it was the totality of the day, coupled with her reluctant night in the open and heaped with a double dose of 'weird'. Whatever the reason, Jordan decided what would help her feel better right now would be another sob session. Knowing mortal women were prone to fits of emotional displays, Legolas patiently waited for Jordan's tears to cease; softly, he began to sing an Elvish lullaby, its cadence weaved an aura of comfort around the woman. The Elf smiled to himself and continued singing when Jordan hiccupped and sighed. Feeling her body slowly relax once again in his arms, the Elf was about to lay Jordan down on her pallet when he changed his mind; Legolas drew his cloak over them and held the woman close.

The Mirkwood Prince was not tired, nor did he wish to fall into reverie. Instead, as Jordan slept, Legolas studied her face; his blue gaze followed the fine shape of the Immortal's eyebrows. He longed to see her eyes, but lids weighed down by thick lashes hid them. The cool night air brought out the roses in Jordan's cheeks, and the moon gave her smooth skin a pearly luster. Taking a lock of her dark hair, the Elf enjoyed its silky feel as he slowly rubbed it between his fingers, then against his cheek. It was deepest black, in the sunlight, it shone blue. Legolas' keen eyes traveled down Jordan's face, her lips were slightly parted, as if in invitation, and her body was warm and pliable in his arms. Feeling the tightening in his groin, Legolas sighed and waited for the dawn. It was going to be a long night.

The world was beginning to stir as the day broke. Jordan's warm blanket was shifting. Making a soft noise of protest, she snuggled closer. In her dream, her lover's face was inches from hers; his lips curved at the corners, making it seem as if he were always smiling. She touched his face, and found his skin to be as she always imagined - smooth and warm.

_My Adonis_. Jordan thought dreamily. Reaching up, she touched her lips to his.

Dawn finally arrived. It was time to break camp and set out for Imladris; trying to wake Jordan, Legolas shifted his position in the hopes of rousing her from slumber. Instead, the woman snuggled closer to him. Had circumstances been different, Legolas would have explored the opportunity presenting itself. Knowing Jordan still lingered in the realm of dreams, the Elf relented, and allowed her a few more moments' rest, until, eyes unfocused and cloudy with sleep, Jordan looked at him and touched his face. And then she kissed him.

It was not much of a kiss, really, but the sensation of their lips touching caught him off guard. It was electric. For a split second, Legolas hesitated, not wanting to take advantage of the situation, and then with a groan, he deepened the kiss and pulled Jordan closer to him; her arms encircled the Elf's neck as she enthusiastically responded to him. His tongue traced her lips, lightly stroking, before gaining entrance and dancing with hers in a soft welcome that intensified with each stroke. The silky-smooth feel of her soft lips and tongue made him want to explore the rest of her, to see if she felt just as good.

_I can actually feel his body . . . his hair . . . so soft, so . . .!_

Rarely were Jordan's dreams so realistically erotic; most often she awoke to frustration, knowing the dream was wonderful, but unable to fully recall details, grasping at a quickly fading memory. However, this time the dream is not a dream. Jordan came fully awake. Her eyes flew wide open as she broke off the kiss and removed her arms from around his neck; for a long moment, they simply stared at each other. Jordan was breathing hard, trying to get her raging body under control. As for the Elf, Legolas' eyes held the unmistakable light of interest as he waited to see what the woman would do. Blushing furiously, the Immortal realized she was draped across the gorgeous creature. Quickly, the woman scrambled off the Elf's lap and jumped to her feet. Not quite meeting his eyes, Jordan knew she had to get away, to give herself a moment to collect herself. What on earth had she done?

"I-I'm sorry…" Jordan managed to stammer as she turned away. She did not see the wide grin on the Elf's face.

The woman had to force herself to walk sedately when she really wanted to run as she headed towards the stream. Kneeling by the waters edge, the Immortal touched her lips. They felt swollen from Legolas' brief but thorough kiss. She'd been kissed before, but not quite like that. Looking at her reflection in the clear water, Jordan couldn't help but smile before it faded. The Immortal couldn't deny the attraction she felt for Legolas – it was the suddenness and intensity of it that scared her; it was so out of character for her to kiss a man she hardly knew, let alone an Elf in an alternate reality.

_Well, I hope that means he's not gay_. Jordan thought. Sighing, she splashed her face and neck with water, shivering from the cold.

_I'd better get back. We'll be leaving soon_. Composing herself, Jordan walked back to camp; Gimli was already mounted on his gelding.

"Did you sleep well, Lass? You'll need all your strength if you're to stay on one of these blasted beasts for the duration of the journey." The Dwarf said, casting a baleful glance at his mount. Jordan smiled, but didn't answer Gimli's question.

All trace of their camp was gone. Standing by Arod, Legolas was stroking the horse's neck, speaking to it in what Jordan presumed to be Elvish; looking up at her approach, the Elf met her gaze with a level one of his own, his face impassive. Searching his blue eyes, Jordan could see no reproach in them as he handed her a small wafer.

"Good morn, Jordan. This is Lembas-Elvish way bread." Legolas said.

"Thank you." She replied.

Not knowing what else to say, Jordan nibbled her bread; it was light, airy and surprisingly filling. Once again, Legolas easily lifted Jordan onto Arod, took his place behind her, and they were on their way. The trio had ridden for a better part of the morning, when the Immortal couldn't stand it any longer.

"Legolas, about this morning…I hope I didn't offend you, or act inappropriately." Jordan waited in tense silence for his reply.

"There is nothing to forgive. I regret that it ended." Legolas replied.

His warm breath brushing against her ear caused goose bumps to form on Jordan's arms, despite her clothing. The woman was glad Legolas couldn't see her blush and how much his words pleased her. His next words did not please her.

"Your wounds are completely healed. There is no mark or hurt on you." Legolas' astute observation made Jordan slightly uncomfortable.

_He may be blonde, but he certainly isn't dumb or blind_ she thought.

"Umm, I heal quickly. It's a family trait." Jordan said.

Seemingly satisfied with her answer, Legolas fell silent.

_The blow the Orc dealt her was delivered with great force, yet she is without a mark._ he thought, intrigued.

The Elf decided to leave the matter alone . . . for now. The travelers didn't stop for lunch; instead, they ate more of the Lembas. Despite the distance they traveled, Legolas grew increasingly concerned for Jordan. It was quite evident with every stride, gallop and trot of the horse. The manner in which she bounced up and down, not posting with Arod's stride told the Elf she truly had not much – if any, experience riding on a horse.

_She is skilled with a blade, but not with horses._ He mused to himself.

Unfortunately, they must ride hard to reach Rivendell before midday. Stopping only to water the horses, Legolas dismounted lightly and reached up to help Jordan down. Jordan grabbed Legolas' arms for support; she would've fallen if his hands weren't still around her waist, as her legs buckled beneath her. Mortified, Jordan tried forced her legs straight, despite her thighs' protest; the Immortal's buttocks felt as if they were had been spanked continuously through the morning, and her back ached fiercely.

"I-I'll be okay—I just need to stretch." She mumbled.

Looking at the ground, the woman missed the concerned frown on Legolas' face. Gritting her teeth, the Immortal forced herself to straighten and slowly made her way to the Dwarf who was watering his mount at the stream; Jordan couldn't help but grimace with every step she took.

"Gimli, how do you stand it?" she asked.

"Lass, those pointy ears take to horses like fish to water. We Dwarves are not suited for the beasts, but never let it be said we cannot adapt. 'Twill get easier as we go on. Perhaps you should altar your seat." Though his voice was gruff, Jordan could hear the concern. Squinting up at her, Gimli looked at her shurikens flashing in the light.

"Those weapons of yours are unlike any I've seen. Mayhap in Rivendell you can show them to me." The Dwarf

proposed.

"I'd be honored. I would also like to examine your axes. The craftsmanship is extraordinary." Jordan smiled at the way Gimli stood a little taller, with his chest puffed out.

After the horses drank their fill, and the water skins replenished, the trio prepared to ride; this time Jordan sat sideways; once again she gritted her teeth as they took off. Jordan scrutinized the landscape, marveling at its unsullied beauty. When the woman grew bored, she surreptitiously studied the Elf. Staring at his clothing, Jordan wondered why the designs on his outer tunic looked vaguely familiar. Unable to place her finger on it, she gave up; instead, the Immortal examined Legolas' quiver holster. Jordan was admiring the tooling and etchings when her gaze traveled upwards to the Elf's profile. Even with the opportunity to study him at such close range, Jordan discovered with a small amount of envy that his fair skin was unblemished, and in the sunlight, had a luminescent quality to it; looking at his ears, the Immortal was especially fascinated with the tips, and her fingers itched to touch it.

_I wonder if Mr. Spock is descended from intergalactic Elves…?_ Jordan thought.

"You gaze at me most intently" Legolas commented.

"Can you wiggle your ears?" Jordan wished she could take the words back the moment she uttered them.

"No, can you?" Legolas replied, with a smile.

_Touché._ The Immortal thought.

"I'm sorry, that was rude of me. It's just that I've never met an Elf before. Elves, Dwarves and Orcs aren't exactly common in Washington." Jordan replied.

"When Lord Elrond determines his course of action concerning the Orcs, I pledge to you my assistance in finding your way home, if that is what you wish." The sincerity in his face touched her, leaving no doubt in her mind that he would keep his word.

"Thank you, Legolas." She said softly, turning her attention back to the passing scenery.

"Tell me more of this 'Washington'." Glad to talk about something safe and familiar, Jordan told him about her apartment, and her favorite local haunts in Washington, her discomfort briefly forgotten as the horses' swift hooves bore them towards their destination.

"Look, we are here." Legolas announced.

The change in the scenery was breathtaking. In Trollshaw Forest, there was a lush, primeval forest; Rivendell was majestic. It was a sea of autumn colors: reds, golds, greens, oranges, yellows, everywhere there was color—and lots of it, as well as Immortals. Almost immediately, Jordan felt multiple Buzzes.

"Legolas, we're not alone. There's someone out there." Jordan murmured as she sat up straighter, despite her sore bottom's protest. Surprised, Legolas looked at her quizzically before replying.

"Rivendell is well guarded. No doubt Lord Elrond is already aware of our arrival. Tis not much farther." The Elf assured her as they began their ascent.


	5. In The Company of Elves

As the little company rode higher and higher into the mountain, the air became cooler, crisper and thinner. At first, the Immortal had difficulty adjusting to the high altitude; she felt short of breath. To compensate, Jordan began to hyperventilate. The increasing frequency of the Buzz also set the Immortal on edge. Noticing her discomfort, Legolas murmured softly in her ear.

"It will ease momentarily. Not much further, Jordan, we are almost there." Nodding in acknowledgement, she concentrated on her breathing. Slow, deep breaths made her ascent more bearable as they passed misty, roaring waterfalls, and occasionally, other Elves who appeared and disappeared into the foliage, silent as shadows. The steep incline was terrifying; the path narrowed markedly so the horses walked on single file, yet the surefooted animals continued upwards, unconcerned how some areas of the mountainside seemingly fell completely away. When she braved a look over the side of the narrow path, Jordan could no longer see the forest floor far below. She kept her eyes front and center since then, having no choice but to trust in the Elf and his mount.

_It's Mt. Fuji all over again._ Jordan thought to herself

Gimli and Legolas would greet by name those they knew, and would be greeted in kind. Finding it easier to breathe with each passing moment, Jordan was in awe of the place, her head in constant motion as she took in her surroundings. Legolas was amused, a tolerant smile on his face; unconsciously, Jordan clutched the Elf's arm. Occasionally, the woman would strain to peer over his shoulder at something that caught her attention.

"Are you pleased with Rivendell?" He asked her teasingly.

"It's beyond anything I've ever seen…" she said reverently. Her green eyes were shining, their color intensified by the lush foliage.

"Our journey is almost over." The Elf said, his gazed fixed forward. Turning to face forward again, Jordan followed his gaze; her eyes grew wide with wonder as the magnificent structures and statues perched upon the mountainside came into full view.

They rode into a vast, open courtyard. Gimli had already dismounted, the reins of his horse taken by an Elf, presumably a stable hand. Legolas soon followed suit and lightly dismounted. The beauty of Rivendell left the woman speechless; everywhere her gaze fell, graceful arches, lush groves, silhouettes and buildings were perfectly intertwined with nature itself. It was difficult to determine when a building began, and where nature took over. Jordan was still marveling at the architecture, when she paused, raising both hands to her temples; the Buzz - low in intensity since their ascent, became a constant, insistent crescendo upon their arrival, increasing by seemingly a thousand fold as more Elves arrived and gathered to greet the travelers and tend to the animals. Resting his forehead upon Arod's neck and stroking it affectionately, Legolas spoke briefly to the Elf holding the horse's reins, before turning to help Jordan down; the alarming pallor of her skin, and her general look of distress did not escape him.

"Jordan, what is the matter -Are you ill?" Perplexed and alarmed, the Elf's concerned eyes trained upon her; one moment she was fine, the next she appeared markedly nauseated and decidedly unwell, her body rigid with tension, hands balled into fists and pressed hard against her temples.

"Legolas, I don't feel so good…" Swallowing hard against the bile threatening to come up, Jordan closed her eyes and took a deep, controlled breath in, visibly trembling.

The overwhelming Buzz - in combination with the strain of their hard ride - turned Jordan's already sore legs to jelly. Her effort to resist the onslaught against her senses became too much. Slumping against Legolas as he lifted her down, the Immortal concentrated on not vomiting on the Elf's boots; whimpering softly, she offered no protest as Legolas bent and effortlessly swept her up in his arms. Everywhere, the musical voices around her became garbled and distant as the Buzz roared in her ears, filling her head and overwhelming her ability to react; the woman's body became limp, her eyes rolling back in her head.

Alarmed by the unexpected turn of events, Legolas quickly carried Jordan to the quarters indicated by a servant; unable to help himself, the Elf caressed her soft cheek before taking his leave, entrusting her to the capable hands of Læurenthail, the head Healer, confident Jordan would receive the best care possible. The gesture wasn't lost to Læurenthail's sharp eyes, though her face remained expressionless. Nodding to the Healer, Legolas departed, seeking the Elf-Lord.

Seated at an impromptu council meeting, Elders of various ranking were in attendance, listening intently as Legolas and Gimli told of the strange flash of light leading them to the woman, Jordan Waters, and how she alone battled Orcs until they arrived. An occasional frown marred Lord Elrond's smooth forehead. The Companion's tale corroborated reports of increased sightings and skirmishes with renegade bands of Orcs; the latter occurring with disturbing frequency.

The Lord of Rivendell's first priority is to rid the surrounding outlying areas of the Orc scourge. Then he would consider Jordan Waters. At present, the woman was unable to speak for herself. His course of action determined and met with approval by the gathered Elders, Lord Elrond decided to pay his unexpected guest a visit, knowing his Elven guards would deal with any fell ilk that dare enter his realm, his orders already relayed that the borders of Rivendell be heavily fortified. The coming festivities will continue without interruption.

"She stirs." A soft, female voice said quietly. The Buzz had become a steady drone in the Immortal's head as Jordan's eyes flew open in alarm, her hands instinctively searching for her Katana, ready to deal with the threat so near. Struggling to sit up, gentle hands firmly held her down.

"You are still weak. Rest." Jordan's disoriented mind barely took in the she-Elf.

Beautiful, aristocratic features graced her flawless face; pointed ears peeked out from behind gorgeous, flowing chestnut brown hair. The she-Elf's perfectly shaped eyebrows raised slightly, as she observed her curious charge. Jordan slowly then vigorously shook her head from side to side, attempting to silence the noise in her head. It was a futile attempt. Pressing the heels of both hands against her tightly closed eyes, Jordan could not prevent the grimace of pain upon her face. The woman breathed deeply, forcing herself to relax. Giving herself over to the insistent sensation, the Immortal let it fill her entire being, adjusting to the feeling, focusing, pushing the Buzz to the back of her mind. Long moments passed before the woman was able to raise her head without giving in to the urge to empty her already empty stomach. Drawing a deep, and somewhat shaky breath, face devoid of her internal struggle, Jordan's hands rested at her side. The Immortal looked at the she-Elf with clear eyes.

"I am Læurenthail; you are in the House of Elrond, Lord of Imladris, Jordan Waters." The she-Elf said in a low voice; she smiled briefly at Jordan's look of confused astonishment.

"Welcome to Imladris, or in the Common tongue - Rivendell, Lady Waters. I am Elrond; Lærenthail, our Head Healer, has been tending you."

Startled at the low voice opposite from the she-Elf, Jordan head swiveled to gaze at the new speaker, a tall Elf with regal bearing addressed Jordan. His rich robes, and the elaborate circlet upon his head indicated his rank as that of royalty. Jordan's cheeks colored a becoming shade of rose, indicating her chagrin at meeting the Lord of this realm in such manner, unsure if she should rise from the bed and curtsey, or remain where she lay. What she longed to do was pull the covers over her head and hide.

Elrond's sharp features and even sharper gaze took her appearance in. Sensing no shadow in her person, only acute embarrassment, as well as wonder, he decided to leave her in her quarters until the evening's festivities.

"My Lord, thank you for your hospitality. I'm afraid your first impression of me is not a favorable one."

"We will speak more later. There is a feast this even; I pray you will be well enough to attend. In the meantime, Lady Waters, rest well."

"Thank you, my Lord." Jordan relaxed against the pillows as Læurenthail walked Lord Elrond out; their voices low in conversation.

"Do you think she well enough to attend this even, Læurenthail?" He asked the Healer.

"Yes, my Lord. Exhaustion is all I see that plagues her. Lord Legolas says she is not a skilled rider. No doubt her body is most sore from their travels; I believe she is unaccustomed to high elevations, My Lord, yet she has adjusted well rather quickly." Lord Elrond nodded, satisfied with the Healer's assessment of their guest.

While the woman was unconscious, he had taken the opportunity to examine her unusual clothing and weaponry. Spying the leaf of Lórien around her neck, Elrond Half-Elven was intensely curious to know how a strange mortal woman would be in possession of it. It only served to raise more questions. When he touched it, images of landscapes and structures that were alien filled his mind.

Most prominent was the face of a handsome, dark-haired Man that flitted thru the Elven ruler's mind; fragmented images and impressions gave him the sense the Man was a . . . Swordmaster of some manner, and of great significance to the unknown woman. As for the woman, no threat or shadow could he sense from her, yet he determined her presence in Imladris to be noteworthy, to say the least. The answers would reveal themselves, all in good time, and time is certainly something the Elves had. If answers were not revealed, then surely Mithrandir would be able to lend clarity to the situation. Deep in thought, the Elf-Lord granted the Healer her leave to return to their guest; he has much to ponder.

Jordan lay back against the pillows of the bed, watching Læurenthail move about her room silently and efficiently. Idly, she toyed with her necklace. Pleased Jordan remained awake and alert, Læurenthail remarked, "You heal quickly, Lady Waters. Your clothes have been sent for cleaning; they will be returned to you shortly. In the meantime, I hope you deem the wardrobe acceptable for your use." Indicating a large armoire decorated with intricate carvings, the she –Elf continued, "You will find items needed for your stay at Rivendell. If there is any thing you require, please let Ceallach know."

"Please call me Jordan, Læurenthail. I can't thank you enough for your care. I only hope there is a way for me to repay you and Lord Elrond for your thoughtfulness and hospitality." The Immortal said earnestly; Laeurenthail gave the woman a ghost of a smile and turned towards the door.

"I shall leave you now. Ceallach will show you to the washroom; a servant will escort you to the feast. No doubt Lord Legolas and Master Gimli wish to know how you fare." With a reassuring smile, the she-Elf left, closing the door silently behind her.

Jordan waited for a beat of three before sitting up in bed, the bed sheet falling away. The Immortal noticed her bra and panties were missing, and wondered wryly what the Elves thought of her clothes; Jordan looked down at the gown she was wearing. Brilliant white in color, the sheer, gauzy material did little to hide her nudity but felt good next to her skin, the supple scoop neck heavily embroidered in gold and green thread; apparently Elven maidens weren't petite. The gown was made for a tall person, on her, the neckline reached from shoulder to shoulder; when she gathered it closer, the neckline only dipped lower, into a deep "U", all the way to her belly button, presenting a dilemma of sorts. On the other hand, if Jordan wasn't careful, it could slip entirely off her shoulders, and down to the ground. The sleeves were long and bell shaped, and reached well past her hands. It was one of the most beautiful sleeping gowns she'd ever seen. A sudden feeling of homesickness over came her.

_If I were home, I'd be shopping and getting a pedicure. Then I'd go home, happily exhausted while I eat popcorn and watch a DVD_ she thought. Sighing, Duncan's face came to her mind; she wondered what he was doing.

_Much as I'd love to stay, I've got to find a way back home_.

Feeling stronger, Jordan noticed the Buzz remained a steady, low-level hum.

_Definitely more tolerable. Elves must be immortal. I wonder if there are any more of Us here. Or am I the only one? If Duncan could only see me now!_ She thought. Looking around the room, the carvings and appointments were all beautiful, natural, and Elvish in design.

_Home and Garden TV has nothing on them_ Jordan thought.

Looking up at the ceiling, suspended was the sheer netting that was currently pulled aside; if drawn, it would act as both an insect shield, and a romantic curtain. The white bed sheets were made of the softest cotton-like material, the neutral and earth colors of the room rich and vibrant; the room, gown and setting made her feel feminine and dainty. As the fading rays of the sun came thru the open windows, a soft, refreshing breeze circulated through the room, bringing with it the rich scents of the world outside and the tranquil sounds of nature.

Jordan had to crawl across the large bed before she was finally able to slip off. Taking a step, she tripped over the long hem of the nightgown, the Immortal caught herself on a beautifully carved stand beside the bed, almost knocking it over in the process. Steadying it, she sighed in relief.

"You break it, you buy it." She warned herself as she looked around the room.

To her delight, the Immortal noticed her weapons were complete and in their holsters, draped across a chair at the side of the armoire.

_How thoughtful. And trusting. Obviously they don't consider me a threat._ she mused to herself.

Going to the armoire, Jordan carefully opened the doors to see it held various articles of clothing. Finding a robe, Jordan slipped it on; delighted to see its length was perfect. Belting it closed, the Immortal crossed the room and went to the door. Jordan stepped outside. In the hallway, she met another beautiful she-Elf who introduced herself as Ceallach; the Elven maiden quietly led the woman to a room that was straight out of a fantasy. Another architectural wonder was before her; a natural, spring-fed sunken pool dominated the center of the room; large enough to swim in, fresh water replenished as it poured from a graceful statue of a she-Elf tipping an urn; various, lush green plants and ferns were everywhere, the scent of flowers permeating the balmy air.

"This pool is fed by a waterfall that falls away to the river below. Lady Waters, you will find what you require to complete your cleansing on the stand. I shall be outside. You may leave your shift by the pool if you wish." Looking around the room, Jordan turned back to thank her, only to discover she was alone.

"Silent as shadows." She murmured to herself.

Shrugging, Jordan counted to three before squealing in delight. The Immortal ran to the water; carefully folding her robe and gown, she placed them on the ledge where they wouldn't get wet. Dipping her toes in the water, Jordan found it was wonderfully warm. Easing herself in until fully submersed, when Jordan did finally come up, the Immortal hugged herself with a smile. Wading to the stand by the pool, she sniffed the scented bars and studied the delicate combs, admiring the exquisite craftsmanship. Deciding on the soap that smelled like herbs and flowers, Jordan stood in the shallow area, working it into a rich, luxurious lather, covering her hair and body with the fragrant foam.

Looking like she was covered in marshmallow cream, Jordan's green eyes were the only visible part of her body. Diving into the water, the bubbly foam floated on the surface, where it swirled before disappearing. Breaking the surface, Jordan swam to the edge of the pool and rested her head on her hands and studied her surroundings .

_I wish I could take this home_ Jordan thought wistfully.

Not wanting to linger too long, she finished her bath. Jordan sat on the ledge, her legs still in the warm water as she selected a comb made of mother-of-pearl. Pulling it thru her wet locks, the Immortal carefully wrung the excess water from her long hair. She then placed the used comb beside the bowl, separating it from the other combs. Jordan dried off with a large cloth before slipping back into her robe. Gathering up her shift, the Immortal blew a kiss good bye to the room and stepped into the hallway where Ceallach was waiting for her.


	6. Feast and Fancy

Upon returning to her quarters, Jordan was delighted to see a fire crackling merrily in the hearth. Its bright flames cheered her as she stood before it, enjoying its warmth. When she could bear the heat no longer, the woman walked to the balcony and looked out; the panoramic view of Rivendell at night bathed in silver moonlight made it ethereal and otherworldly. Jordan could hear the many waterfalls, and see the silhouettes of trees and the surrounding foliage; on her balcony, off to the side sat a beautifully carved bench, and beyond it, steps leading down to a courtyard and a grove of trees. Though electricity did not exist in this world, the cunningly placed torches reflected off the pale buildings amplified the light, making it seem there were lights all around. Soft and inviting, they illuminated the buildings in its warm glow. Soon, another sound drifting on the night wind caught her attention. Tilting her head, listening closely, Jordan heard voices lifted in song. Closing her eyes, she listened to the haunting music, the lyrics sung in a verbiage not known to her.

"I'm in an '_Enya_' video" she whispered giddily to herself.

Jordan turned to go back inside, but paused - all along the doorway, the external carvings glowed faintly in the weak moonlight. Cautiously reaching out, Jordan touched it – it was cool beneath her fingers. Experimentally, the Immortal scraped the carvings with her fingernails. It didn't come away.

"Hmmm, what is this. . . ?" she wondered aloud.

Unfortunately, Jordan was in a hurry and didn't have time to give it more than a cursory thought as she hurried back inside to prepare. Peering into the armoire, she selected a gown of the deepest emerald. Slipping it over her head, Jordan was thankful to find it fit her perfectly; searching thru the drawers, Jordan was unsuccessful. She couldn't find. . .

"Panties. Where are the panties!?" she wondered, pawing thru the drawers again. Starting over, Jordan searched the armoire from top to bottom. Her thorough search was fruitless, and she pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"I guess they don't exist here." The Immortal said to herself; it appeared she would have to do without.

Biting her bottom lip, Jordan smiled and blushed slightly. The Immortal had to admit it felt . . . liberating, titillating and a bit naughty to go about au natural.

"At least I won't have to worry about panty lines." She murmured with a grin.

At the bottom of the armoire, the Immortal found a pair of matching slippers. Sliding her feet into them, she walked around the room, testing the fit and feel - they were heaven. Made of velvet, the footwear appeared delicate, yet were surprisingly sturdy. The cork soles felt wonderful on her feet, unlike anything she'd ever worn. As the woman closed the doors to the wardrobe, she spied a hairbrush in the armoire. Turning it over in her hand, Jordan examined it closely.

"No way. . . " she murmured to herself, with a grin on her face. The handle and back was encrusted with…rubies and emeralds!

"I'd better not drop this." The Immortal said.

With a laugh, Jordan stood by the fireplace and brushed her hair dry till it shone. Giving her reflection a critical glance in the mirror, Jordan twirled slowly, examining herself from every possible angle, pleased to see how the gown flattered her figure; the sumptuous material clung to her curves and bosom, the deep verdant hue intensified the color of her eyes. Jordan decided it was fitting that the Leaf is the only ornament she wore - never mind the fact it was the only piece of jewelry on her person. Stepping closer to the mirror, the woman inspected her face; she wasn't surprised to see her injuries had completely healed.

"Hopefully Legolas won't notice." She murmured to herself.

Jordan decided she was safe enough in Rivendell to go without her weapons, sincerely doubting the Elves would spend the night in wild revelry and licentious debauchery. Squaring her shoulders, the Immortal couldn't help but hesitate as dread and eagerness warred within her. Taking a deep breath, she grasped the door pull and stepped outside.

#

Thanking Ceallach for her assistance in finding her way to the fete, Jordan lingered in the vestibule. In the great hall, the festivities were in full swing. Everywhere Jordan turned her eyes were tall, beautiful Elves attired in gorgeous robes and gowns. In the sea of color, she almost overlooked the small group of Men, for their clothes near completely camouflaged them from sight. Jordan was under the impression she was the only human in Rivendell. Apparently she was wrong. As she watched, several Men leaned against the doorway, taking in the sight of the Elves as they passed, while other Men filled their plates with food and carried them outside.

Curious, the Immortal wondered who they were; she observed them speaking with and laughing readily with the Elves, whilst other Men talked quietly amongst themselves. Their long, dark hair hung at or past their shoulders. Facial hair in varying stages of growth identified them as non-Elven. Save for a six pointed, star shaped cloak clasp, their plain, somber clothing bore no identifying marks, nor were the gray and dark green colors adorned with skilled needle work, a direct contrast to the rich, flowing fabrics the Elves favored. The Men were tall, though not quite as tall as the Elves. One in particular caught her eye; from across the room, his direct gaze held Jordan's when her eyes settled on him. They stared at each other for long moments before the Immortal was distracted when several vivid shades of orange and yellow caught her attention. When Jordan looked back to where the Men were, they were gone. The Immortal didn't give them a second thought as she continued to survey the room.

The music in the background was as beautiful and unearthly as the beings she was surrounded with. Exquisite garlands and flowers of all colors and species adorned the walls and tables, their delicate fragrances perfuming the air. Feeling like the analogous country cousin amidst such unparalleled beauty, Jordan edged her way to a potted plant and stood close to its wide, dark leaves, hoping to blend in with the foliage, attempting to be inconspicuous as she gazed around the room. So enthralled with her surroundings, the woman forgot her hunger, instead she feasted her eyes on the sights surrounding her.

Food-laden tables were placed throughout the room. Seated close to a table spread with assorted meats, Jordan watched Gimli busy at work; his plate was heaped high with food, and he ate with unapologetic relish. The Immortal searched the room, telling herself it was only because she was hoping to see another familiar face. After all, there was nothing quite like attending a party where you didn't know a single soul. It wasn't difficult to find his fair head.

"Guess there's no such thing as an ugly Elf." She whispered to herself.

Though the Elves possessed beauty beyond compare, to Jordan's eyes, the golden Elf was more handsome than any other Elf in the room. There was . . . something about him that drew the Immortal to him like a magnet and made her heart flip-flop in her chest.

_You've only just met_. she chided herself.

Jordan thought of their brief kiss in the forest, and the memory of it brought a smile to her face. Giving herself a mental shake, the Immortal wondered how Legolas' presence alone had the power to make her speechless, wanting nothing more than to stare at him. He also made her feel like an awkward teenager again – a feeling she'd not experienced in quite some time. From her sheltered hiding place, the Immortal continued to observe the Golden Elf conversing with two male Elves, who were mirror images of one another; looking back and forth between them, Jordan thought they closely resembled Lord Elrond.

_Maybe I should say hello._ Jordan thought, about to step out from behind the plant.

Jordan halted abruptly, nervous. Suddenly feeling shy, the Immortal smoothed her gown with palms that were slightly damp; would she be welcomed? The Immortal hoped Legolas would notice she looked different from when they'd first met; Jordan hesitated, unsure why the Elf's good opinion of her mattered. Staring at him, Jordan was still pondering the thought, when Legolas looked straight at her. The woman stood still; hoping he didn't see her, she willed herself to be one with the potted plant. Holding her breath, Jordan was relieved when one of the Elves asked him a question, causing Legolas to look at him. Jordan was so engrossed in watching the Wood Elf that she was startled at the soft voice by her elbow.

"Jordan, why are you hiding?"

Læurenthail was dressed in a long peach colored gown, a smile graced her lovely face when she spied Lord Elrond's unusual guest hiding behind a plant. Sensing her awkwardness, the she-Elf went to Jordan in an effort to make her feel welcome. The look of surprise and relief on the woman's face was obvious to the Elven maiden. Appraising her with an objective eye, Læurenthail noted Jordan barely resembled the she-male she was upon her arrived at Rivendell.

_She is fair for a Daughter of Man_. the Healer decided.

Although Læurenthail wasn't inclined to seek the company of mortals, she understood why Lord Legolas befriended them. They were like children; their emotions unguarded, and given their limited time on middle-earth, mortal Man lived lives with a passion worthy of admiration. The Healer wondered after Jordan's age, for she seemed more like a youth than a woman. Perhaps she had not attained her full stature, for the top of her head only reached to most Elves' chins.

"Læurenthail—it's so good to see a familiar face!" Jordan said, relieved to see the Healer.

"Thank you for the gown, I've never worn anything like it—and best of all, it fits!" she enthused, smoothing the dress once more.

"Your own garb was used as a pattern to alter the gown and the other garments. Come, the revelry will begin soon." With her hand beneath the woman's elbow, the Healer gently pulled Jordan away from her hiding place and led her towards the tables.

Nodding politely to the Elves the she-Elf introduced her to, Jordan looked back to where she last saw Legolas; the Immortal was vaguely disappointed to see he was gone. With a small sigh, the Immortal obediently followed Læurenthail, trying to remember the (to her ears) unusual names; the Healer pointed out guests of import, and introduced her to others of particular interest as they drifted towards the refreshment tables. When they did finally reach the foodstuffs, the Immortal sighed in relief as she inspected the spread; Jordan recognized some vegetables, but most of the dishes she did not. Regardless, the presentation of the artfully prepared foods was a feast for the eyes and surpassed any catered event Jordan had ever attended - the variety was astounding. The Immortal's stomach growled loudly in response, to the appetizing aromas wafting through the air, reminding Jordan of her inattention to its needs.

Filling a plate, Jordan quietly nibbled her food; talking with Elves Læurenthail introduced her to, the Immortal answered their curious questions, tailoring her answers without giving away too much, deliberately vague. After eating her fill, a passing servant collected the Immortal's empty plate. Needing fresh air and a chance to walk off some of her meal, Jordan excused herself from the pleasant company and made her way outside to the balcony.

Going to a dark corner, the Immortal stood at the railing; the chatter and music of the feast in the background faded to a muted hush as she listened to the night sounds. Looking up, Jordan imagined a giant child taking a handful of stars and scattering them across the nighttime sky. Without artificial lighting, it was amazing to see how brightly they shone, twinkling like diamonds against a bed of black velvet. Taking a deep breath of the cool night air, the scents of the moisture from the waterfalls, the surrounding forest and the feast filled her nostrils. Jordan watched as a star blazed across the sky, its tail leaving a glittering trail in its wake.

Closing her eyes, Jordan's lips moved silently as she made a wish. The Immortal thought of home and Duncan; he seemed so far away. However, a full stomach, a luxurious bath, in the safety of Rivendell—surrounded by fabled creatures of legend, the woman's perspective changed slightly. Shivering, though not from the cold, Jordan wrapped her arms around herself. Jordan was torn between wanting to fully experience this incredible adventure and wanting it to end, because it will. Still lost in thought, the Immortal was startled as something warm enveloped her. Whirling around, Jordan discovered Legolas had draped his cloak over her, and he now stood before her with a small smile on his handsome face; the Elf was standing so close that Jordan had nowhere to go, trapped between him and the railing at her back. They stared at each other in silence for a few moments.

_He's worth staying_ Jordan thought.

Blinking, the Immortal mentally shook herself; it was a dangerous line of thought that was best left unexplored. Tilting her

head back to better look at him, Jordan studied the Elf. In the moonlight, Legolas' pale hair gleamed, his features luminescent. Perfect in form and symmetry, living marble in the flesh. A voice in the back of the Immortal's mind whispered she should thank the Elf for his thoughtfulness, but Jordan found her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Instead, she returned his smile with one of her own. Needless to say, the Immortal didn't expect his next move, for Legolas' hands cupped her face, gently turning it as he looked for her injuries. She was unprepared for the tingling sensation that caused a delicious shiver to go down her spine; it felt like a miniature Quickening. Unconsciously, Jordan swayed towards the Elf, closing her eyes as she enjoyed the feel of his hands against her face. Satisfied with his inspection, Legolas gently brushed his knuckles against Jordan's cheeks before his hands slowly traveled down the smooth column of her neck. The Elf's fingers continued downwards and touched the pendant suspended on its silver chain.

"That is the leaf of Lórien. How did you come to possess it?" Legolas' clear gaze was puzzled as he looked at her.

"It's a gift from an acquaintance. He gave it to me shortly before I . . . arrived here."

_No-of course! This must be the key to everything!_ Jordan's thoughts were spinning in her head. The way back home could possibly be suspended around her neck!

"Legolas, maybe this is the answer to my way home, maybe-" Her eager words were cut off as the Elf placed a finger gently against her lips, effectively silencing her.

"If you hold the key, then there is time enough to find your way back. Tonight let us enjoy the evening." He murmured.

For his part, Legolas was unsure why he did not notice the Leaf before, and even more confused why he stilled her words. The Mirkwood Prince did not want to hear Jordan speak of leaving - not so soon; the Elf surprised himself yet again when he took Jordan's hands in his own and planted a kiss against the backs. Jordan watched the golden Elf kiss her hands in a courtly gesture; perhaps it was the moon, or the stars, or the very romantic mood itself, but the Immortal swore the warmth of Legolas' lips remained on her skin where his lips touched it. And she couldn't help but feel secretly thrilled that the very handsome Elf hadn't released her hands as his blue gaze swept over her.

"Elven garb suits you, Jordan Waters. I am pleased you are well enough to attend the festivities. I was hoping you would come." Legolas said.

Jordan took the opportunity to continue her study of the Elf as well. Garbed in a silvery blue tunic with intricately etched silver clasps down the front, his forearms were bare of the vambraces he had previously worn; under the tunic were brown breeches tucked into his cleaned and polished boots. The Elf definitely cut a fine figure.

"I'm feeling much better, thank you. And are you enjoying yourself, Legolas? Have you eaten yet? Where is Gimli?"

Jordan knew she was babbling, but was unable to help herself; it was a nervous habit she was unable to shake. Legolas was oblivious to the havoc he wrecked upon her composure. He made the Immortal both nervous and excited, and his attentive flirtation, although quite enjoyable, didn't help matters, either. Jordan couldn't quite understand why he affected her so. It was most disconcerting.

"I have eaten, and Gimli is no doubt enjoying the mead and ale Rivendell has to offer." Legolas answered. He turned his head slightly and listened.

"The singing and revelry has begun. Do you wish to join?" The Elf asked. He raised a dark blonde brow when Jordan declined.

"I think I'll stay out here a little longer. I'm enjoying the beauty of Rivendell at night."

"Do you wish to be alone, or may I join you?"

"Please stay." She invited.

_Forever._ Jordan silently added before squelching the unbidden thought.

Legolas led the woman to an ornately carved stone bench, where they sat side by side. The Immortal noticed he still held her hand within his. Jordan marveled at how simple act made her heart soar. Legolas was pleasant company and they talked of the wonders and beauty of Rivendell, which led to a comparison of Legolas' home in Mirkwood. Jordan loved hearing the Elf's voice, and a small part of her wished the evening would last forever, yet the other part of her knew she shouldn't monopolize the Prince of Mirkwood, either. Jordan looked at the golden Elf with regret in her eyes.

"We'd better return. I wouldn't want them to think Orcs kidnapped you," she teased, though she made no move to rise.

Legolas stood, the movement smooth and fluid; he gently tugged Jordan's hand. As she stood, he placed one hand on the small of Jordan's back, and drew her close to him; any closer, the Elf would feel her heart beating double time in her chest. Jordan looked up at him, surprised, and her eyes widened when Legolas combed his fingers thru her hair; Jordan felt goose bumps start to rise up and down her arms, her body reacting instantly to his nearness. It took all of the Immortal's self control to not kiss him.

Bending his head, Legolas softly replied, "Mayhaps they would think you had spirited me away. I would not resist." His warm breath gently fanned her cheek. Flustered, Jordan blushed.

"There you two are! The ale is tolerable here. Lord Elrond's brew masters need some instruction from the Dwarves. Jordan, how are you feeling? You look well enough. Come and feast, for tonight is a night of revelry!"

The Dwarf's blustery voice broke the spell. With a smile, the Elf released the Immortal. Glad for the distraction, Jordan went to the Dwarf, whose nose and cheeks were an astonishing shade of bright pink.

"Gimli, I'm glad to see you. Isn't the feast wonderful? Legolas and I were about to listen to the singing."

"Well, the pointy-ears spend too much time singing and telling tales, but I suppose they do have a gift for it. Let us discover for ourselves what the fuss is all about." Legolas gave Jordan an enigmatic look as he and Gimli escorted her to the festivities and remained by her side for the duration of the evening.

Surrounded by beautiful beings with equally beautiful voices, the Immortal was captivated. When the dancing began, Jordan was entranced by the grace and beauty of the participants, and the intricate steps; the dance reflected the traits of the beings themselves, the steps and movements graceful and complex, the partner an arms' length apart, then held close for the remainder of the dance. Jordan was immersed in her thoughts when a lovely she-Elf approached. The Immortal laughed with delight when the maiden managed to get Gimli on his feet; the two made an incongruous pair as they moved thru the steps. Surprisingly, the Dwarf was a graceful and adept partner. Jordan was so intently observing the dancers; she didn't notice Legolas watching her. The Elf thoughtfully studied the unusual beauty beside him, enjoying the way her dark head bobbed in time to the music, her gaze darting from the dancers' feet, to their posture and back again.

"Luithiach nin (You enchant me)." Legolas murmured aloud, more to himself. Blinking, in surprise, the Fair Elf shook himself and decided it would be better for them to join the merriment.

"Would you care to dance?" He asked her, with a smile on his face.

Jordan was so engrossed in her observation, that she did not hear the question. The Elf touched her arm and repeated his question. Embarrassed, Jordan apologized as she considered the Prince's question. She was about to accept his invitation, and then she thought again.

"Oh no, I couldn't. I don't know the steps." Jordan demurred, yet the eagerness and longing in her eyes contradicted her words.

"Then I shall teach you. Allow me the honor of a dance with you, fair Jordan." Legolas cajoled. The Immortal hesitated.

"Please."

The Elf held his hand out to her and smiled. With her hand enveloped in his, the Elf led the Immortal to the dance floor. When they reached the dance floor, Jordan had a sudden change of heart, and would've returned to her seat, had Legolas not kept a firm grasp on her hand. After more cajoling, the Legolas led her through the elaborate steps.

The Golden Elf effortlessly caught the Immortal and laughed with her when she stumbled yet again, encouraging her to try again, restraining her gently when she wanted to give up and return to her seat; much to Jordan's relief, Legolas was a patient instructor. Halfway through the dance, Jordan finally managed to not step on the Elf's boots quite so often - although several times Legolas firmly yet gently steer her away from the other dancers when they almost collided. The Mirkwood Elf kept his amusement to himself, for he observed Jordan was concentrating so hard on the steps, she was tense and stiff in his arms - her brows drawn together, her cheeks colored most becomingly with the effort of not bumping into the other participants. A large part of the problem was that Jordan wanted to lead.

"Trust me. Surrender yourself to the music."

_Easy for you to say_ Jordan thought, intensely aware of the Elf's arms around her; her pulse rate had quickened, and she knew it was not because of the deceptively rigorous dance.

Jordan nodded and closed her eyes, willing herself to relax. Concentrating on the music, she pretended it was Duncan's and not Legolas' hands guiding her. The ploy worked, for Jordan was finally able to follow Legolas' lead, not noticing they had danced through one song without a misstep. When the song ended, the Immortal opened her eyes and laughed up at the Elf; her green eyes sparkled with her joy at not stumbling over his boots. Legolas' breath caught in his chest.

_Nan Belain, he ssen main (By the Valar, she is beautiful!)_ Legolas thought with surprise.

Unable to help himself, the Elf bent down and brushed his lips softly against Jordan's; the awareness crackled between them like a living thing. They stood there a moment, caught up in each other, before the Elf led her back to their seats. The dancing now over for now, the singing began again; this time, the Elves requested Jordan to sing a song. The Immortal vigorously demurred their invitation; the Elves, on the other hand, relented in their repeated requests, only after the Immortal promised she would sing a song the next evening—on the condition they accompany her with their voices and instruments.

The merriment and revelry continued well into the night; despite wanting to be a part of every minute, Jordan reluctantly decided to take her leave when her eyes grew heavy. Noting her fatigue, Legolas stood and suggested she retire for the night. The woman readily agreed, and accepted his offer to escort her to her quarters; Jordan was too tired to find her way back on her own. They walked back in companionable silence; when they arrived at her door, Jordan cleared her throat, unsure what to do. A handshake did not seem appropriate, an invitation inside too forward. The Immortal wondered if Legolas would kiss her goodnight. As if reading her mind, Legolas took a step closer and, with a finger beneath her chin, gently tilted Jordan's chin up. Jordan's lips parted in anticipation as the Mirkwood Elf's face drew nearer. With her pulse racing, Jordan closed her eyes and frowned slightly when the Elf placed a chaste kiss upon her forehead; his warm lips lingered as he breathed deeply of her scented hair. Slightly miffed, the Immortal blinked up at the Elf.

"Goodnight, fair Jordan. Sleep well." Bowing to her, Legolas turned and left.

Looking after him, Jordan shook her head and entered her quarters; the kiss on her forehead wasn't quite what she expected. The Immortal couldn't help the wide grin that spread across her face. Carefully removing and hanging her gown in the armoire, the Immortal changed into the sleep shift laid out on her bed. Looking around the room, Jordan saw that her clothes, a fruit and cheese tray, and a pitcher full of water seated inside a washbasin was added; what interested her more, was the item bearing a remarkable resemblance to a toothbrush: a wooden stick with short, soft fibrous tufts on one end lay atop a covered tin that held a gritty paste inside. Dipping a finger into the paste, the woman correctly deduced its purpose and cleaned her teeth and gums. Unsure what to do with the rinse water, Jordan carefully carried the washbasin to the balcony and poured the water over the side of the balcony rail, then returned the basin. Hugging herself, Jordan spun around, remembering the feeling of being in Legolas' arms. The Immortal twirled towards the bed and threw herself onto the feather mattress. Lying on her back, Jordan stared at the ceiling and laughed at herself before climbing between the cozy sheets. With a huge yawn, the Immortal was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

#

As he made his way back to his quarters, Legolas' mind replayed the night's events. He hadn't seen the woman since their arrival in the Elven realm, and the council meeting had taken up a good portion of time; after a quick visit to check on Arod, it was time to prepare for the feast. Legolas hoped Jordan would be well enough to attend the festivities; the evening was young, and the Wood Elf was glad for the chance to speak with the Dúnedain Rangers; the glad tidings they brought from Gondor and the Prince of Ithilien was most welcome news; the shared sightings of the Orc nuisance and an uneasy truce betwixt Rohan and the Dunlendings was not unexpected, 'twas the first step of a long journey towards healing and the rebuilding of the Riddermark. At Lord Elrond's behest, the Rangers partook of the festivities, eating their fill and strengthening the ties of friendship prior to departing the Homely House. Deep in conversation with the Prince Lords of Rivendell, Legolas strategically placed himself where he could view all the possible entrances; the Elf was beginning to believe Jordan was well enough to attend, when - to his delight, he caught sight of her arrival in the great hall, her countenance both wary and excited. She was very fair to behold, and he could not tear his eyes away from her, all the while trying to mask his amusement at her attempt to hide behind the plants-as if she wouldn't be noticed.

Unfortunately, Elrohir, one of Lord Elrond's twin sons, had chosen that very moment to ask him a question, necessitating the courtesy of eye contact as he answered; after, Legolas' blue eyes searched for Jordan, only to see her leave with the head Healer. Watching her from a distance, the Mirkwood Prince was glad to see Jordan enjoy herself, knowing Elven hospitality would allow nothing less. He decided to retreat to an alcove where he could openly observe her with a measure of privacy. As she ate her meal, Legolas could see Jordan's eyes wandering the room. He wondered if she looked for any one in particular. After Jordan had eaten, Legolas watched as she stepped outside. He decided to follow her outside; pausing in the doorway, he sensed the melancholy radiating from the woman, and stepped forward hoping to lift her spirits.

Jordan shivering in the cool night air gave him the excuse he sought; draping his cloak about her shoulders, Legolas wanted only to comfort her. Instead, Legolas was left with a compulsion he must obey; the Mirkwood Prince couldn't help himself. He had to touch her. Tilting Jordan's face to see it better, the Elf saw her face was whole, unmarred and smooth. He wondered yet again how it was possible. The question stilled on his lips when Jordan's eyes widened, and it was then that he looked at her. Really looked at her. Clean, garbed in clothes of his kin, she is . . . beautiful. Legolas had never before been attracted to mortal women, yet there something about Jordan that reached out to him. She is a virtual stranger to him, yet he found himself wanting to be by her side as much as possible. Troubled, Legolas decided a walk would put matters into proper perspective and add clarity to an unfamiliar situation.


	7. A New Day

An early riser by nature, Jordan awoke while it was still dark outside; the first rays of light had yet to appear. It was her favorite moment of the day, when all life was still at rest. Thoughts of the previous night's events filled her mind. With a smile on her face, the woman hummed quietly to herself as she made the bed, neatly hung her sleep shift and placed it in the armoire. After splashing cold water on her face, Jordan cleaned her teeth, brushed her hair in the mirror, and, on a whim, decided to take a very early morning walk.

_I doubt I'll get lost here_.

Attired in her clothes, out of habit, Jordan strapped on her weapons and settled her trench coat to hide them from sight. On impulse, Jordan reached into her pockets to discover her chocolates were still inside. Grabbing an apple and wedge of cheese from the fruit tray, she crossed to the balcony, descended the stairs into the courtyard below and made for the tree line in the distance. Though she could saw no Elves, the Immortal felt their presence. Munching her breakfast, Jordan watched the dark sky slowly lighten; noting the position of the sun, the woman walked eastward.

_None of the national parks back home can even compare to the beauty of Rivendell. _ Jordan thought to herself.

The woman disappeared into the tree line and kept walking; further into the forestland the woman strode, with no particular destination in mind. Enjoying the stillness of the morning, at last, the wooden sentries parted to reveal a sheltered glade. Jordan cocked her head; her eyes scanned the tree line hemming her in, noting the even lower level of the Buzz.

_I guess you can never be truly alone here. _ the Immortal thought. Her good mood deserted her as she contemplated what she must do.

"I need to know." She said softly.

Sinking to the ground, Jordan sat cross-legged; she placed her sticks on the dew-covered grass before her and laid her Katana across her lap. Picking up her sword, the woman unsheathed it; her fingers hovered above the curved surface, watching the full tang gleam in the weak light; tilting it at an angle, the Immortal studied her reflection in the blade. Her green eyes solemn as she gazed back at herself. With a sigh, Jordan quietly sheathed her blade and reached for her rattan sticks, inspecting the smooth, polished surface. Jordan gripped them tightly until her knuckles turned white.

Despite the beauty of Rivendell, and the Elves' hospitality, she is a stranger on the outside looking in; Jordan found herself becomingly increasingly enthralled with Rivendell . . . and against her better judgment, Legolas. She briefly wondered where he was at and what he was doing. It would bode well for her if he did not have the ability to send her senses into a tizzy. Such adolescent, juvenile behavior had to stop, the Immortal sternly told herself. But Jordan could not prevent the smile that touched her lips when she remembered their forest kiss, or their dance the evening before. Heaving a frustrated sigh, Jordan stood in a fluid motion. Holstering her sticks, and stowing her sword, the woman kicked a rock away and began to pace.

_I like it here too much; I must find a way back before I get too attached to this place. It'll make leaving all the harder when Duncan comes. Think, think, think, Jordan! _

Inspired, Jordan's pacing came to an abrupt stop. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out one of her peanut butter cups. Tearing the wrapper open, she shook one onto her palm.

"Allright, Alice, it worked for you. Let's see if Wonderland will still be here." She said.

The candy was halfway to her mouth when Jordan hesitated. Legolas' face appeared before her, his impossibly blue eyes boring into hers. Before she could change her mind, Jordan took a bite, chewing and swallowing quickly. Nothing. Placing the rest of the confection in her mouth, this time the Immortal chewed slowly and carefully before swallowing. Still nothing.

"Maybe I need to eat the entire thing." she mused to herself.

Jordan set to work on the second chocolate disc. Licking her fingers, she waited. Counting to one hundred in her head, still nothing happened. Frustrated, Jordan continued her pacing before coming to a halt.

_Well, they're not red ruby slippers, but…_

Drawing herself up to her full height, the Immortal clicked her heels thrice as she chanted 'there's no place like home' three times. Still nothing. Improvising, Jordan clicked her heels again, chanting 'there's no place like Seacouver' three times as well, with the same result-nothing. Resuming her pacing, the Immortal absently toyed with the Leaf at her neck, thinking.

"Of course!" she exclaimed.

Certain this time she'd found her way back, Jordan stood still and took a long last look around the glade.

"I'll miss you." She whispered. Jordan closed her eyes and curled her fingers curled tightly around the Leaf.

"Lothlórien leaf, take me home!" Opening her eyes, the beauty of Rivendell greeted her. Stamping her foot in frustration, Jordan repeated the command.

"Lothlórien leaf, take me home now!" Still nothing. Shoulders slumped in defeat, Jordan sighed.

"Well. I guess that settles it; I'm here for a while." She said with mixed emotions.

Deep within her heart, Jordan was secretly relieved to find she remained in Rivendell; she sighed to herself again. Her melancholy did not last long as her mood perked up. It was difficult to be glum in Rivendell, whose wonders she had yet to explore. If anything, it would make a fantastic story to tell when she returned.

_It would be rude of me to leave without thanking Lord Elrond. Or say goodbye._ Yet the image of a certain blonde haired, blue eyed Elf came to mind, not the regal Elf-Lord.

"Might as well make use of this time alone" Jordan said quietly.

Jordan focused and cleared her mind. Gripping the smooth rattan stick in each hand, her thoughts returned to her sparring sessions with Duncan. Repeating the maneuvers, her steps measured, movements graceful and stance strong, she moved forward and reverse, turning - continuously twirling her sticks in the weaving movements of the _Sinawali_, and then segueing into the circular, downward motion of the _Redonda - _the extremely fast strikes whipping in a circle and returning to the point of origin. Giving herself over to the joy of the movement and wanting to feel her blood pump through her veins, Jordan increased her speed; flicking her wrists one hundred and eighty degrees, the resulting strike's fan-shaped motion was quicker than the eye could follow, her feet alternating between a pivot and a triangular step. Adjusting her grip, the woman practiced the _Puño_. The devastating move - delivered with the butt of her sticks, targeted soft spots and nerve points, disabling her opponent; Jordan frequently employed it to shatter bones. After a while, the Immortal switched weapons.

Pressing a button that locked her sticks together, Jordan spun it several times, feeling for the proper balance, before launching into another practice. Spinning the staff around her, the Immortal wondered what the day would hold. Jordan knew she would have to make good on her word; she needed to meet with the Elven virtuosos and practice with them, so she wouldn't make a fool of herself. The Immortal holstered her sticks, stretched her arms and made her way back.

#

After escorting Jordan back to her quarters, Legolas was restless. Disturbed and intrigued by his feelings for the mortal woman, the Elf changed clothes and strapped his weapons to his lithe body, preparing to patrol Rivendell's borders; instead of taking out his frustrations on Orcs and Uruks as he'd hoped, the Mirkwood Prince wandered the length and breadth of Imladris, stopping to visit with the sentries on guard duty; the trees whispered all was well as the wood Elf passed thru their branches.

The uneventful night afforded the Mirkwood Prince ample time to think about Jordan - the strange woman whose face is vivid in his mind's eye. Three hundred feet up in the trees' canopy, the pre-dawn found Legolas heading back towards his quarters, nimbly leaping from swaying one swaying branch to another, barely disturbing the leaves as he took his favorite route back. He was almost there when his keen Elven sight spied a lone figure walking. Recognizing Jordan, he followed her. She was eating an apple as she walked. He watched as she dropped the remains of the fruit into a pocket of her strange garb. Following her to the secluded glade, Legolas was confident the woman was unaware of his presence, until she stopped and looked towards his direction. Was it possible she was aware of him - could she see him? The Elf continued to observe her; their eyes met, and the Prince raised his hand in greeting, but the woman didn't respond, in fact, she seemed to be looking thru him. . . searching. Legolas was puzzled at her lack of response, but did not move from his perch.

Lowering herself to the ground, Jordan looked to be lost in thought as she stared at her weapons; she then stood, only to pace the glade. After a moment, the woman pulled a brightly colored packet from her pocket, and consumed its contents. Then she resumed pacing before coming to a halt and hit her heels together; although he was too far away to hear the words, Legolas could see her lips moving as she spoke. The wind stirred the leaves of his perch, the branch swaying slightly in the wind; grasping the bough above him, Legolas continued to watch the woman below. A smile tugged at his lips as he observed her odd behavior. It faded as her hand clasped the Lórien leaf; their conversation the evening before echoed in his mind as the cool morning breeze clearly carried Jordan's words to him.

"Lothlórien leaf, take me home!"

"She is attempting to return!" he said aloud. The Elf's blue eyes narrowed as he watched, waiting to see what would transpire.

"Lothlórien leaf, take me home now!" When nothing happened, Legolas sighed in relief, not realizing he'd held his breath.

Surprised at himself, the Elf didn't have time to ponder his feelings. His eyes were riveted to the woman far below him who now took her sticks out and began some sort of fighting routine; slowly starting until the speed and sureness with which she moved left no doubt she could be a formidable opponent. Legolas continued to watch with interest, when the sticks became a long staff. Jordan twirled it a few times, then faster until it blurred. Stabbing, twisting, turning, her long coat swirled around her as she moved. Effortlessly, Jordan switched to a one handed technique; without missing a beat, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the apple core. Tossing it high in the air, it shattered when it fell onto the whirling staff. Shortly after, Jordan separated the sticks and tucked them away. Legolas' expression was thoughtful as he watched her walk away, her long, glossy hair and overcoat fanned out behind her in the morning breeze.

#

It was dawn when Jordan returned to her quarters. The woman felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders. Invigorated by the early morning exercise, she looked forward to the rest of the day with a clear conscience as she gathered her toiletries and sought out the washroom. Losing her way, a servant came upon her in the hall and escorted her to the room; when finished, Jordan managed to successfully navigate her way back to her quarters, where she ate more fruit and cheese. Recognizing the Lembas in a covered dish next to the fruit, Jordan broke off a small piece, and nibbled it while inspecting the contents of her armoire. Her stomach feeling decidedly full, the woman passed on the soft breeches, opting to dress in a brown velvet gown with green embroidery; she twirled around, loving the feel of the rich, flowing fabric.

Determined to find the House of Healing Jordan requested directions several times from the Elves she encountered, before she eventually found it. Hearing her visitor long before she arrived, Læurenthail stood at the doorway to welcome Jordan, pleased to see her dressed in Elven clothing.

"Good morn, Jordan. Are you well?" Læurenthail inquired.

Her sharp eyes noted with mild surprise and interest that Jordan's injuries were completely healed—no trace of hurt was upon her person.

"Good morning, yes, thank you. I want to thank you for your company last night; I had a lovely time." The she-Elf gave her an enigmatic smile, and inclined her head slightly. Unsure how her proposal would be met, Jordan continued on.

"I do not know how long I will be here; in the meantime, to repay your hospitality, and to learn from you, will you please allow me to help you with whatever needs to be done? Back home I work with healers. We call them 'physicians' or 'doctors'."

"I would like that." Læurenthail answered.

The she-Elf wasted no time, and put Jordan to work immediately; Jordan was kept busy bundling together sprigs of many, many different herbs. Lavender, rosemary, and thyme were the only three she recognized; the Outlander did as instructed, hanging them neatly upside down in the well lit, well ventilated workspace. The suspended racks anchoring the herbs were neatly arranged, Elven writing labeled the bundles in flowing script. The scents were heady: sweet, sharp, clean, soothing, invigorating. Jordan breathed in deeply and smiled. This was not at all laborious, but a relaxing and pleasant way to while away the hours. As Læurenthail worked, Jordan watched, inspecting and sniffing the salves and poultices. She examined with delighted wonder the healing vessels displayed in the House, some of which she was convinced were beautiful predecessors of modern day apothecaric apparatuses. The Head Healer, Immortal and Apprentices compared notes on healing; as an added bonus, the Elves taught Jordan the basics of their language and etiquette; Læurenthail was pleasantly surprised to discover Jordan was able to articulate the language.

The woman's tongue occasionally stumbled over the pronunciation, but her effort was commendable, for her mind grasped the inflections, if not the meanings. After several tries, Jordan was able to parrot back words and sentences, as long as they were short. In return, Jordan taught the Healer a few words in both Tagalog and Spanish. To Læurenthail's surprise, the Elven maiden discovered the company of a Mortal could be pleasant and somewhat enlightening; as a result, the morning flew by unnoticed. It was mid day when a servant brought an assortment of breads, cheeses and fruits for their meal.

Painfully aware she was expected to sing at the evening's festivities, Jordan reluctantly excused herself from the Healing House. The Immortal thought fondly of her karaoke nights with her co-workers as she found her way to the great hall; there she joined a group of Elves poring over the selections of songs for the evening's entertainment.

Recognized as Lord Legolas' and Master Gimli's guest, the minstrels greeted Jordan cordially as they prepared their instruments. Jordan hummed the tune she planned to sing several times; though the arrangement of the chords and tempo was foreign, the Elves' natural musical aptitude enabled them to master the melody and lyrics in short order.

_This beats karaoke any day!_ Jordan thought.

All too soon, it was time to prepare for the feast. Again, Jordan was amazed how time escaped her notice in this beautiful place. Back home, it was rush, rush, rush. Bidding the Elves farewell till the evening, Jordan could not stop herself from thinking about Legolas on her way back to her quarters, hoping to see him later that evening.

Successfully finding her way to the washroom, Jordan took her time bathing. In her quarters, the woman marveled at the hospitality of the Elves. The gown she wore last night was hanging in the armoire; however, another gown was thoughtfully provided for her, complete with matching slippers: royal blue velvet embellished with silver embroidery; Jordan touched it reverently as she held it up, admiring the exquisite needlework. Unless Elves employed sewing machines, surely the elaborate stitchery was done by hand.

With a whoop of delight, Jordan spun around the room, crushing the gown to her. Eagerly shedding her robe, she carefully slipped it over her head; it settled over her body like a gentle caress. Feeling like a medieval princess, the woman looked at her reflection - turning to inspect herself from different angles, her hands smoothing imaginary wrinkles.

_No doubt they want me to look presentable_.

By the time Jordan finished preparing for the evening, once again, the feast was well under way when she arrived. Stopping by Lord Elrond's table to greet her host, they exchanged pleasantries before the Elf-Lord bade Jordan enjoy herself. Deciding a handshake or wave 'goodbye' inappropriate; Jordan inclined her head respectfully to the Elven Lord before doing as she was instructed.

This time the woman was accompanied by Læurenthail, who stayed by her side as they listened to the Elves' tale telling. Too nervous to eat, the woman discreetly searched the gathering for a particular fair head; her gaze wandered around the room. Spying Gimli drinking with a group of Elves, Jordan waved and smiled to him when he raised his tankard in greeting. All too soon the time for singing came. Several songs were sung by the Elves, much to Jordan's enjoyment. Thinking they changed their minds to have her sing, Jordan relaxed—until it was announced that Lord Elrond's guest would share a song from her land. Jordan took a goblet of what she was told was _Miruvor_, the Cordial of Imladris, from a passing servant. Eyeing the clear, colorless liquid dubiously, although she didn't drink alcoholic beverages, tonight she would make an exception. Taking a healthy swig, Jordan swished it around her mouth, fighting the urge to gargle before swallowing the slightly thick, spicy sweet drink; its invigorating warmth spread throughout her body and to the pit of her stomach, bolstering her courage.

_Liquid _courage she thought wryly.

Convinced she would sound like a frog next to these wondrous beings, Jordan fervently hoped their voices and instruments would drown hers out. She felt as if all eyes were boring into her; it did not ease her nervousness. Jordan's hands were cold and sweaty as she made her way on trembling legs to the raised platform where the minstrels waited. Jordan cleared her throat as the opening strains filled the air. Looking at the expectant faces surrounding her, she took a deep breath and opened her mouth; her clear tenor, though soft, increased in volume when the haunting voices of the Elves in the background blended with and strengthened hers:

Lovers in the Long grass

Look above them

Only they can see

Where the clouds are going

Only to discover

Dust and sunlight

Ever make the sky so blue

Afternoon is hazy

River flowing

All around the sounds

Moving closer to them

Telling them the story

Told by Flora

Dreams they never knew

A collective murmur of approval came from the gathering of Elves as her voice floated across the room; before long, some Fair Folk were dancing, others were smiling and nodding, their heads moving in time with the music. Jordan's voice grew still stronger as she sang; the combination of the Miruvor, the song and the beautiful beings made Jordan feel she belonged to this magical place, if only for a brief moment.

Silver willows

Tears from Persia

Those who come from a far-off island

Winter Chanterelle lies

Under cover

Glory-of-the-sun in blue

Arriving late to the Great Hall, Legolas checked on Gimli, who appeared to be having a grand time with the Elves gathered around the ale and Miruvor casks, trading battle tales as he extolled the prowess of the Dwarves. After speaking briefly with Lord Elrond, the Wood Elf went to get a bite to eat, filling his plate with the delicacies Rivendell had to offer; as he ate, his bright eyes searched the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jordan.

Overhearing snatches of conversation about 'the woman' and 'singing', Legolas stopped a passing maiden, and asked what the evening had in store; he was told the Lady Jordan was to sing a song as she promised the even before. Handing his empty plate to a servant, the Mirkwood Elf followed the strains of music. Watching from across the room, the golden Elf saw the trembling of Jordan's hand as she lifted a goblet from a passing tray; taking a gulp of the potent liquid, her cheeks and nose took on a noticeably pink tinge as she composed herself, slowly mounting the steps to the dais.

Knowing no mortal could compare with an Elf in song, he wondered how she would fare, when her clear voice carried across the room, accompanied by the minstrels. Legolas had to admit she was fairly good—for a mortal. He stepped out from the shadows into view, drawn by the yearning in her voice. Taking in her appearance, the gown skimmed her curves, again showing them off to her advantage; the Leaf of Lórien rested in the hollow of her throat. Jordan's green eyes glittered in the light, her black hair, worn loose framed her face. Swaying in time to the music, the woman smiled when she saw him, before shifting her gaze to the dancers below sweeping gracefully by. Legolas stood watching the woman; this stranger awakened a longing in the Mirkwood Prince that could not be ignored for much longer; he continued to watch the Daughter of Man, his fingers twitching slightly at his side, remembering the silky feel of her hair.

Some they know as passion

Some as freedom

Some they know as love

And the way it leaves them

Summer snowflake

For a season

When the sky above is blue

When the sky above is blue

Lying in the long grass

Close beside her

Giving her the name of the one the moon loves

This will be the day she

Will remember

When she knew his heart was

Loving in the long grass

Close beside her

Whispering of love

And the way it leaves them

Lying in the long grass

In the sunlight

They believe it's true love

And from all around them

Flora's secret

Telling them of love and the way it breathes and

Looking up from eyes of

Amaranthine

They can see the sky is blue

Knowing that their love is true

Dreams they never knew

And they sky above is blue

Before the final strains faded away, the Elves clapped their hands, crying out "Again!" as the room took it up. Delighted and fortified with the Miruvor, Jordan complied. Once again the song was sung, this time the entire room in motion as the Elves danced and lifted their voices in song. As the minstrels continued to play, an Elf went up to the dais, pulling Jordan down to dance. Glancing at Legolas before she was led down the steps, he inclined his head in acknowledgement. Gazing up at her partner, a noble Elf she was acquainted with, Jordan smiled politely as he led her in the steps. To her credit, she didn't stumble. Attempting to be discreet, Jordan stole a glance sideways, where Legolas stood, to see he was gone. Disappointed, she continued to chat politely with her partner.

"May I have this dance?"

Behind her, Legolas quiet voice felt like a caress. With a bow to Jordan and a nod to the fair Elf, her partner placed her hand in Legolas' before he stepped away. The Crown Prince enfolded her hand in his, and again, a delicious shiver went up her arm to her neck and down her spine. Luminescent blue eyes held her eyes fast as they danced in silence. After a moment, Legolas spoke.

"Mae carnen."

"Huh?" Jordan mentally kicked herself as soon as she uttered it, for it was not exactly an articulate word suitable for the present company. It was Legolas' turn to look confused.

"I left my Elvish to Common translation book in Seacouver." She joked feebly. A smile tugged at the Elf's lips.

"Well done." Legolas translated. The Elf's compliment made Jordan laugh.

"You're very kind, Legolas. Compared to Elves, I sound horrible, but I thank you anyways. I was petrified. Because I had help I was able to sing." She said.

After the song ended, the Elf led her away from the dance floor; sitting together, watching the merry makers, Legolas entertained Jordan with stories about the Elves he pointed out, and answered her questions; after a while, they fell into companionable silence; wishing to be alone with her, Legolas stood. Taking hold of her hand, the Elf led Jordan outside to a shadowed corner, where they stood at the railing, gazing up at the stars twinkling overhead. The Elf seemed to be lost in thought. For a long time, he didn't speak as he gazed at something in the distance—Jordan was beginning the think he'd forgotten she was there. Clearing her throat, Jordan spoke softly.

"'Second star to the right and straight on till morning.'" Jordan quoted with a smile as the Elf looked questioningly at her.

"Home." She said.

Legolas studied her face, and though his face was serene, the expression in his warm blue gaze seemed . . . troubled. Jordan suddenly regretted her interruption. Falling silent, she looked away.

"Tonight is the last night of the festivities, then the Orcs are to be dealt with. As Lord Elrond wishes, I am to go with the hunting party. When I return, I shall help you-" Legolas' words were silenced as Jordan placed a finger softly to his lips.

"Shhh…tonight let us enjoy the evening." The Immortal teasingly said, echoing his words.

The smile on Jordan's face faded when the Elf caught her hand and placed a warm kiss on her palm. Holding her breath, Jordan watched as Legolas placed it against his face, his skin was as she imagined - warm and smooth. Letting go her hand, she watched in fascination when his golden head bent closer. His lips brushed lightly against hers in a soft, inquiry. Raising her head, Jordan answered his kiss with a tentative kiss of her own. Legolas' arm encircled her waist and pulled her tight against his body as he buried his other hand in her hair, cradling and turning her head as he willed, to kiss her as deeply as he wished. Raising her arms to encircle his neck, Jordan kissed him back with equal ardor; Jordan felt the Elf's unmistakable arousal as it pressed against her. All too soon Legolas broke away, but not before placing gentle kisses on her cheeks, nose and forehead. Dazed, Jordan simply stared up at him. The woman's eyes were dilated; lips swollen with his kiss, her hair in slight disarray. Highly aroused and equally flustered, the woman shook her hair back and smoothed her dress, in an effort to regain her composure.

"Were we to continue, Orcs could not stop us." Leglas said; his low, ragged voice gave away the strain it took to control himself. The desire in the Elf's eyes burned with intensity that made her shiver.

Guiding her by the elbow, by mutual consent, they returned to the feast, where Legolas remained by her side for the remainder of the evening. Once again, after the revelry ended, Legolas escorted Jordan back to her quarters in silence; Jordan stole furtive glances at the Elf, only to be met with an indecipherable look in his eyes. At her door, Legolas did not so much as kiss her hand as he bade her good night before taking his leave. Inside her quarters, Jordan changed into her sleeping shift then set about preparing for bed. Staring up at the ceiling, the Immortal touched her lips softly.

_Where did that come from?! _

Jordan didn't know whether to curse of bless the Elf, for he was complicating matters greatly. . . and shifting her focus. Jordan knew she would - could not sleep, for her mind would replay the balcony scene in an endless loop. Jordan sat up in bed; wrapping her arms around her legs, she rested her chin on her knees. Staring at the dying flames in the hearth, the woman thought about Legolas. She had been kissed before, some were quite memorable, others not so much. Tonight's kiss from Legolas was…beyond incredible. The way he made her feel just being near him is intoxicating. He made her toes curl; with a look he made her feel faint. When he kissed her, Jordan swore her blood boiled in her veins and her body felt as if she were on fire. His touch . . . Jordan shivered at the thought of his touch; her imagination ran wild, conjuring images of herself and the Elf locked in a passionate, naked embrace.

_Yeah, like that will ever happen._ The woman thought wistfully.

Shaking her head, Jordan laughed and hugged herself, unable to stop the grin that plastered her face. No, she'd never felt quite like this about anyone—much less about a mere kiss. The last time Jordan felt something remotely close was with _Him_.

Like a bucketful of cold water in the face, the thought of _**Him**_erased the smile from the Immortal's face, as the hurt and shame returned in excruciatingly vivid detail. Forcefully pushing it out of her mind, Jordan questioned the rules of attraction in Rivendell. An uneasy feeling filled the pit of her stomach.

"Maybe—maybe I'm too direct. Am I supposed to be coy?" she wondered aloud. It had been so long since she'd dated, the Immortal was unsure what to do and how to act.

"What've you done to me, Legolas Greenleaf, son of Tharanduil? You put a spell on me." She whispered harshly to the flickering flames. The Elf made her feel alive; if Jordan was honest with herself she would acknowledge that she teetered on the brink of . . . something.

_What exactly is going on here? Am I imagining things, or is there something happening between us?_ Jordan thought

to herself.

In Legolas' presence, Jordan forgot she was from another time and another place - a displaced traveler. After tonight, after acknowledging and giving in to their mutual attraction, it would be difficult at best to maintain a platonic friendship with the Elf; in the long run, it would be for the best - for both of them. An occasional kiss or caress wouldn't hurt . . . or could it? The Immortal shook her head to clear her mind, uncertain and confused even more than before. The Elf was not only distracting - he clouded her judgment without even trying.

"I will keep my distance, no matter what. I must—for both our sakes." Jordan vowed.

With a sigh, Jordan lay down; sleep eluded her as she tossed and turned. When she did finally sleep, dark was her dream.

Jordan was back in Trollshaw Forest; a sense of déja vû engulfed her as she looked around. Fear. Every instinct in her body propelled her forward; the air thick with silver fog as she ran. Jordan's limbs felt heavy, as if she were moving in slow motion. Behind her, she could hear muffled sounds. The Immortal did not plan to discover its source. Overhead, the steady _whomp, whomp, whomp_ of helicopter blades beat the air in its slow, rhythmic drone. Coming to a stop in a clearing, the mist hung heavy - a shadow was taking shape.

Swallowing hard, Jordan reached for her Katana, and panicked when her hand closed around air; looking down, Jordan was dismayed to discover she was clad only in her sleeping shift, barefoot, weaponless and vulnerable. Looking up, in the distance before her stood Duncan, the Highlander wore an expression of great relief on his face. When he saw her, he fanned his Katana before resting the gleaming blade against his shoulder and reached out to her with his free hand. With a feeling of joyous urgency, Jordan ran towards her Mentor. The younger Immortal's steps slowed and she came to an abrupt stop as another figure materialized. Legolas stood beside Duncan, his crystal blue eyes burning into hers, a smile on his handsome face as he held his hand out to her.

_Jordan, come home…_

_: : Come with me…: : _

The Highlander's and the Elf's expressions became pleading and urgent; simultaneously reaching for Jordan - voices indistinct as they repeated their whispered pleas over and over, their words became one and reverberated within Jordan's head. Backing away from them, she clapped her hands tightly over her ears to block out their voices shouting insistently and cajolingly from everywhere and nowhere. Stumbling over her feet, the woman fell to the ground and lay curled up in a fetal position.

With a jolt, Jordan sat up, wide-eyed, chest heaving as she panted for breath. Moonlight streamed inside, illuminating the room with its silvery glow. Her legs tangled in the bed sheets, hair and sleeping shift damp with perspiration, she shivered as the cool night air evaporated the perspiration on her body. Jordan turned her pillows over to the dry side before untangling her legs and climbing out. Padding slowly to the armoire, she brushed her hair out, splashed cold water on her face and changed into a fresh shift. Rather than return to bed, Jordan sat on the stone bench on the balcony outside and faced her quarters. Ithildin inlaid into the stone glowed brightly in the moonlight; the Immortal's eyes followed the swirls and runes upward, where they climbed up the ornately carved sides like a living thing. Jordan stood; her bare feet hardly felt the cold stones as she walked. Reaching out to touch the walls, her hands traced the carvings.

Without thinking, Jordan began to scale the wall, her hands and toes unerringly finding purchase as she climbed. The woman's thoughts briefly traveled back to her childhood, when she would climb the tall coconut and mango trees on her father's plantation. She should have been in school studying. Seated on the roof, Rivendell at night was spread before her; the outlying lands beyond lay shrouded in shadow and mist, vaguely reminiscent of the vestiges of her dark dream. Unmindful of the cold, damp air, Jordan wrapped her arms around her knees and stared out across Rivendell until the sun's first rays appeared above the horizon.


	8. Explore Your World

Dawn found Jordan asleep on the roof; slowly, the sun rose in the sky, gradually burning away the haze enveloping the lands beyond Rivendell. Golden fingers of light unhurriedly crept over the dark horizon, pushing back the shadows before gently touching the sleeping Immortal. Curled up in a ball, her dark head pillowed upon her arms, the Immortal frowned. Awareness of the chill in the air roused her from her peaceful slumber. Desperately clinging to the last vestiges of sleep, Jordan's hands clumsily searched for the bed sheets she kicked off; there were none - her fingers touched cold stone.

"Hhhmmm . . ?!" Drowsily, Jordan yawned, opened her eyes and looked around.

Slowly sitting up, the Immortal blinked sleepily and shivered lightly in the cool morning air. Stretching her stiff limbs, the woman rubbed her arms vigorously, forcing her blood to circulate warmth. From her high vantage point, in the distance below were the graceful forms of Elves going about their usual morning activities. Aware of their keen eyesight, she carefully climbed down from the roof—hopefully before Lord Elrond received word of his guest's odd behavior.

After a hurried bath, the Immortal slipped into a butter soft brown tunic and matching leggings, filled a small satchel with fruit and Lembas, and slung it over her shoulder as she walked towards the balcony and down the stairs. Seeking privacy to ponder her situation, Jordan made her way towards the glade, avoiding as many Elves as possible without being rude. Try as she might to remember her dream, the details eluded her - vanishing like mist on the water, yet the feeling of despair and foreboding remained. Passing thru the dew-covered glade, Jordan's footsteps bent the emerald hued grass, leaving a visible trail behind her. Striding purposefully towards the thick grove of trees, the Immortal strode further into the copse of woodland than she'd ventured before. Absorbed in her thoughts, the grandeur of the trees passed by unnoticed, until finally, her progress was abruptly halted when she splashed into the stream intersecting her path. Jordan blinked several times as the cold water rushed over her boots. She stared at the flowing water; her mind belatedly registered its presence—as if it suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Hastily backing out of the stream, Jordan shook the water off her leather boots before turning in a slow circle, studying her surroundings. Save for the stream merrily tinkling in its bed, all was quiet and still, the solemn mood permeating the air made the Immortal feel as if she stood on Holy Ground. . .

: : : :

_St. Ignacio Memorial Park_

_Manila, Philippines_

_September 1945_

_Two months after her parents' departure, Jordan stood in the middle of the cemetery, facing the Highlander. Following her Teacher's lead, they walked past headstones, statues, and crosses - silent sentinels watching over the departed souls resting in the hallowed soil._

"_Why have you brought me here?" she asked, nervously looking around. _

_Jordan did not like being out late at night – not at a cemetery; by day it was peaceful, comforting even. At night, the new Immortal found it macabre and frightening; the grave markers glowed eerily - bleached bones in the light of the midnight sun. Edging closer to Duncan, she gazed at him expectantly. The Clansman looked down at her without speaking; he continued towards their destination: the columbarium. Situated deep within the cemetery, the large, imposing building loomed ahead in the distance. The duo entered, their footsteps whispering across the marble floor. Further they walked, the cubbyholes on either side dotted with keep sakes dedicated in memoriam. Standing at the south wall, Jordan following Duncan's gaze._

_Jordan Milagros Waters_

_Born: June 19, 1924_

_Died: July 3, 1945_

_Beloved Daughter_

_Gone To A Better Life_

_How strange. Jordan thought, staring at the plaque covering the niche. _

_Her formal portrait, taken moments before her Debut, proudly returned her stare from behind the protective glass cover. Memories of that important milestone filled her mind. _

_Was it only three years ago . . . ? _

_Closing her eyes, Jordan imagined herself back to that moment in time with her closest friends and their escorts, the night spent laughing and dancing - the joyful, festive atmosphere; she smiled faintly at the memory of the flurry behind the scenes while she changed several times into in her gowns -each successive gown more beautiful and elaborate than the previous - during the course of the night; Jordan relived performing the traditional dances with her court, every detail of the graceful waltz of the Grand Cotillion. Precious memories became dearer to her heart - of her girlfriends as they lit eighteen candles, celebrating their friendship and her. Relived with each heartbeat, gone in the blink of an eye. The woman's face remained expressionless as her fingers traced the raised bronzed letters._

"_Who's ashes are in there?" she wondered aloud._

"_Someone who would've ended up in a university lab or buried in an unmarked grave. It doesn't matter." The Highlander said quietly, watching Jordan's reaction. _

_The fledgling Immortal did not hear his answer; she was lost in memory, back to the night of her Debut, to the Eighteen Roses dance, where after receiving seventeen red roses from her male entourage, Jordan's Father strode onto the dance floor to present her with her eighteenth rose – a perfect, white rosebud, before sweeping her into their Father and Daughter dance. In her mind's eye, she saw her parents dancing close together once again. Her heart aching at the bittersweet memories, Jordan felt she could not breathe. She stood before her tombstone, unable to maintain her façade of indifference. Soon, her bottom lip trembled violently. _

"_I never got to say 'good-bye' - I should've told them I loved them while I could. Now they'll never know!" Jordan wailed._

_Tears welled up in her eyes; a glistening drop of moisture escaped and slowly trailed its way down her cheek. Tenderly, Duncan wiped it away with his thumb, only to see it replaced by more, as Jordan cried her grief and pain anew; the sound echoed loudly in the passageway, amplifying her misery. The Highlander sighed and pulled her close in a comforting embrace; Jordan's arms went around him, clutching him tightly as she sobbed. Resting his chin atop her head, Duncan gave Jordan a reassuring hug when she finally stilled and composed herself._

"_Will it get easier?" she asked, sniffling._

"_Maybe. Maybe not; time will tell__. When I first became Immortal, I had the same fears that you have. My life changed in a way I couldn't comprehend. Through the years I learned there are so many endless possibilities. I'm not telling you that whatever gift you were given you'll ever get back. Things will never be the same - that's the way it is for us. But there's future on future, lifetime on lifetime out there for you - but only if you learn how to protect yourself.__" He replied. _

_Reaching into his overcoat, the Clansman pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it into Jordan's hand. Jordan dried her tear-stained face before she blew her nose noisily. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and looked up at her Teacher, giving him a watery, tremulous smile._

"_I needed that." Jordan said as she drew in a shaky breath._

"_Better?" he asked as she took another deep breath. Jordan nodded before her eyes took on a sudden, panicked look. _

"_I'm all alone, now, Duncan . . ! " the unpleasant reality Jordan held at bay since her death struck her with all its awful truth._

"_I have no one!" Jordan burst into tears again, the wrenching sobs that came from his student tore at the Highlander's heart. He couldn't blame her for taking it so hard._

"_Jordie, Jordie - you have me. As long as I live, I'll be there for you. No matter what." The Highlander promised as he stroked her back soothingly._

"_Really?" she asked in a tiny voice._

"_Really." Duncan reassured her._

"_Promise?" leaning back in his arms, Jordan searched his dark eyes._

"_I promise." The Highlander replied before leaning his forehead against hers._

"_Then you really are my Kuya, aren't you?" Jordan said._

"_Yes, I suppose I am." he answered._

"_If . . . if I were to lose my head, will you -"_

"_Yes." He said firmly, looking her in the eyes. _

_Somehow Duncan always knew how to make her feel better. Jordan needed to know she still mattered to someone – to know that somewhere out there, someone still cared for her. It comforted her to know she meant enough to him to avenge her death. The Scotsman gave his student another hug before releasing her._

"_From the ashes of your old life, a new one begins. You're one of us now. Immortal. If you want to stay alive, you must learn to take care of yourself. This is Holy Ground." His face solemn, Duncan spread his arms wide, the gesture encompassing the nearby church and burial plots. Duncan's hushed voice could've been a shout, for the night was unnaturally still; his words echoed hollowly in the cavernous building._

"'_Holy Ground'?" Jordan repeated._

"_Any place held sacred by any religion is considered Holy Ground and off limits to a Challenge."_

"_Is that carved in stone?" She said, smirking at the play on words. Duncan gave her a hard look._

"_Be serious! This is the only place you'll ever be safe. Your only refuge." The Highlander snapped at her, his voice low. Duncan had __never__ taken that tone of voice with her. Mortified, Jordan nodded, her head bowed._

"_Why is my only safety on Holy Ground?" She asked meekly._

" _The Code - the Rules of the Game forbids it. Even the worst of us will not violate this rule." : : : : _

#

Coming back to herself, Jordan blinked; she remembered that night vividly. A wistful smile appeared on her face.

"Let's see how far the rabbit hole goes." She said.

Jordan resumed walking, stopping only when the trees grew so close together, they appeared impassable. Eyes closed, she stood unmoving, slowing her breathing, the absolute effort and intense concentration caused her forehead to glisten with a light sheen of perspiration as she strained her senses outward; she couldn't feel any Elves close by, the Buzz barely perceptible. Satisfied, the Immortal sighed deeply and opened her eyes. With each breath, the earthy scent of the forest filled her nostrils, the trees were glorious -dark green leaves filtered the sunlight, dappling the forest floor with an ever changing pattern of light and shadow, giving the area an otherworldly feel. She looked about in wonder at the natural beauty surrounding her; the hushed, tranquil atmosphere acted as a balm, soothing her troubled spirit.

Strong branches stretched high above, as if reaching for the sun. On a whim, Jordan decided to climb a tree; with a running start, the woman jumped up and caught the lowest branch within reach. Swinging, she hooked a leg over the branch and pulled herself up. Grasping the bough above her, she climbed higher and higher, until the topmost branches could no longer safely support her weight. Comfortably ensconced in a sturdy forked limb, her back against the tree's trunk, the Immortal looked down at the forest floor far below; the highest trees she climbed in her childhood were half the height of the tree she rested in. Knowing she shouldn't be so high up, especially if she needed to descend in a hurry, Jordan stubbornly remained where she was.

_If I fall out and break my neck, I'll revive._ Jordan thought with a cavalier attitude.

_How will I explain that if I'm found?_ Jordan sobered; she did not wish to explain to the Elves her unnatural ability to return from the dead.

Promising herself she'd return before darkness fell, the Immortal fished out a pear from her satchel, eating it slowly as she thought about Duncan and home; the two were one and the same, yet Jordan realized with a start she thought of Duncan and home less frequently-even more disquieting, was the fact that Rivendell felt like home.

_Where are you, Highlander? Are you looking for me, do you even know how—is it even within your abilities to find me – why am I here?_

Jordan's thoughts turned to the comforts of home. Her mouth watered as she remembered the juicy burgers and ice cream sundaes served at her favorite all-night diner. She could almost hear the beef patties sizzle, almost smell the fragrance of mushrooms and onions grilling. Elven food was delicious—in it's own way, yet she yearned for junk food all the same. With a sigh, Jordan pushed the thoughts from her mind and watched the dust motes dance in the air thru half lidded eyes. Enjoying the solitude, mind returned to thoughts of home - to her co-workers, wondering if she'd still have a job when she returned. A frown creased her brow as she tried to recall if she sent her car payment in the mail before her . . . unexpected arrival in Middle Earth. Jordan didn't have time to think about it as the Buzz alerted her to someone's arrival. Sitting up, grasping the branches on either side of her for support, the Immortal imagined herself an eagle on her nest as she leaned far over the branch, straining to see who would appear. Growing puzzled when no one appeared, the woman's brow furrowed deeply as peered through the leaves below; she couldn't see who was down there.

"'Quel amrun. Mani naa lle umien? (Good morning. What are you doing?)"

Surprised and shocked to hear Legolas' voice above her, Jordan whipped around, slipping from her perch in the process. With an unladylike curse, she began to plummet downward, and would've crashed thru every branch on her downward trajectory —had not Legolas immediately leaped down from his bough above and reached for her. Effortlessly hauling Jordan up by the front of her tunic, he pulled her onto the limb where he stood and held her tight. The Immortal clung to him, her heart beating a mile a minute. One horrible second she was suspended in the air—anticipating a painful fall—the next she was safe in Legolas' arms.

"Amin hiraetha, lirimaer ( I'm sorry, lovely one)" he murmured, stroking her back soothingly.

"H-h-huh?" Shaken, she couldn't quite speak; the adrenalin rush making her tremble quite visibly.

"I did not mean to startle you. Forgive me." Legolas said, glad for the excuse to hold her close.

"Don't you **ever** do that again!" Jordan exclaimed hotly.

Recovering her composure, the Immortal released her hold on the Elf and fought to lean far back in his arms as she glared at him. Legolas smiled mischievously. Incensed, Jordan punched him hard in the shoulder. He didn't even flinch. Instead, the Elf released her. Eyes wide in shock, Jordan fell backward— to be caught again in his strong arms. Infuriated, she struggled to free herself in earnest, not caring if he really did let her fall. Her efforts were futile; he was much too strong for her. Legolas felt dreadful for literally startling her out of the tree-the thought of her coming to harm caused his heart to tighten, the fear as real as if he were the one in danger. Though she was never in any real danger, once he had caught her and she safe within his arms, he couldn't resist teasing her; she was even prettier when angry, for her eyes flashed and spat green fire. Jordan opened her mouth to curse at him, only to have Legolas cover it with his. No matter which way she turned, the Elf followed; wrapping one arm securely around her, his other hand tangled in her long hair, Legolas easily held her fast. Livid, she resisted his kiss, keeping her lips tightly pressed together as she pushed away from him, squirming and twisting in his arms. Despite her best intentions, her anger melted under the Elf's tender onslaught, and she ceased her struggling. Panting from her efforts, the woman's lips parted slightly.

_It's just a kiss . . . what harm could it do?_ the Immortal thought.

Legolas' warm tongue lightly traced her lips. Unable to stop, the tip of Jordan's tongue touched his, and lightly traced his lips in response. Nipping her bottom lip, the Elf gently suckled it before his tongue slipped into her mouth as her lips parted, welcoming him; Jordan's arms encircled his neck and pulled him closer. Legolas tasted the pear she had eaten earlier as he tenderly plundered her mouth, his hand wound her dark hair tighter in his fist; his kiss changed, demanding more from her, and Jordan responded eagerly in return. Legolas' free hand roamed boldly across her back, caressing her waist, before sliding down to her bottom, alternately cupping and gently squeezing her buttocks, raising her slightly and holder her closer to himself. Jordan sighed into his mouth, as he molded her body to his; her bosom pressed tightly against the Elf's chest, the woman clearly felt the growing bulge in his loins, and her treacherous body answered. The woman in her felt empowered—this magnificent Elf found her desirable! Jordan pressed her hips closer, rubbing against his erection. As they continued to kiss high up in the tree, an insistent voice in her mind clamored for her to keep her distance. Ignoring it, Jordan lost herself in the Elf, reveling in his strength, savoring his kiss, the sheer bliss of being in his arms. The Wood Elf kissed the Immortal thoroughly once more before nuzzling her neck. Though he wanted her badly, Legolas did not plan for their first encounter to take place in a tree; the woman deserved better. He will wait . . . for now. Reluctantly, Jordan struggled to compose herself; it took everything she had to not jump on Legolas and smother him with more kisses. Stroking his thumb against her bottom lip, Legolas gave her a lopsided grin.

"Forgive me, Arwenamin (my lady). I will never let you come to harm." Remembering the reason for her anger, her eyes narrowed; without warning, Jordan pulled his ear.

"Tanya awra! (That hurt!)" Legolas rubbed his ear, looking at her accusingly. Instantly she regretted her childish act. Capturing his face between her hands, Legolas resisted for a moment.

"Its my turn to ask your forgiveness." She murmured sincerely.

Pulling his head down, Jordan kissed his lips and traced his cheek with her lips. Feathering kisses to his injured ear, nuzzling it gently with the tip of her nose, slowly, the woman traced the contours of his ear lightly with the tip of her tongue, lingering over the pointy tip, smiling at his sharp intake of breath as his arms tightened around her.

_Aha!_ her mind stored away that bit of useful information.

Covering his ear with gentle smooches, Jordan licked the sensitive point, gently nibbled his earlobe, and kissed it again before she released him. Legolas' cerulean blue eyes were dilated, the desire in his face made Jordan's eyes widen. They stared at each other for several seconds before Legolas pulled her closer. Resting his forehead against hers, he looked into her eyes, wondering how this woman, whom he barely knew - cast a spell on him. Enchantress.

"I forgive you, Melamin." He murmured, his voice hoarse. Jordan smiled, laughing softly as he hugged her tightly.

"Do you plan to sleep here tonight, Jordan?" he inquired.

_Only if you join me._ she thought.

"No." the Immortal replied. She was still thinking about his kiss.

"Khila amin (follow me)."

_Gladly._ she thought.

Legolas lead the way down the tree; regretting her decision to climb so high, Jordan's descent was more difficult than ascending, her progress significantly slower; unbothered, the Elf was in his element, for the bow and quiver strapped to his back did not impede his progress; looking down, Jordan noted two white handled weapons secured to his back. Wondering what they were, she didn't ask, intent on not stepping on his hands—again. Legolas waited for her, placing her feet on footholds when she would've slipped, steadying her when she faltered, encouraging after she encountered painful splinters. Thirty feet above the ground, Legolas stood on a branch. Without pause, he stepped off, and landed on his feet as if he were only two inches above the ground. Looking up into the tree where Jordan stood clutching a branch, he held his arms open wide.

"Jump—I will catch you." He called to her. Jordan looked at the Elf as if he lost his mind.

"You don't ask for much, do you?" she called down to him disbelievingly. Lifting her onto a horse was one matter; to drop her full weight on him at that height— in addition to the force of gravity and accompanying momentum—seemed ludicrous at best, if not downright impossible.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Legolas. I'll find a way to climb down." She called down to him, searching for the next branch and foot hold within reach. As if reading her mind, he replied,

"I will not let you come to harm, nor will you harm me."

"Legolas, I'm at least twenty feet above you." She reasoned.

"Thirty." He corrected her.

"Are you crazy?!" Jordan exclaimed; looking down, she could see another branch directly below her; she could probably reach it . . .

"Jordan, please. Trust me. It will be dark soon, and there are other things in the forest beside us." He said. The Elf knew full well there was nothing in Imladris that would harm them; Legolas decided to keep that bit of information to himself.

"What kind of 'things'?" Jordan asked, uneasy.

"Things with teeth." He replied. It wasn't a total lie, for the squirrels, foxes and other small creatures did indeed have teeth.

"Big teeth?" she asked worriedly.

"Do you really wish to discover that for yourself?" Legolas asked, his tone ominous.

Legolas waited patiently, knowing he was asking much from her. Catching the satchel she dropped to him, the Elf set it on the ground, taking it as a good sign. The longer he spent with her, the more Legolas hoped she would come to trust him—in more ways than one. The woman in the trees looked down at him, undecided. Jordan didn't relish the thought of climbing down the rest of the way, especially after plucking several large splinters from her palms during their descent. Given the alternative, she decided having a devastatingly sexy Elf as a landing cushion was not a bad thing. If he missed, he'd have to carry her all the way back—which didn't seem like such an awful idea, either . . . Thirty feet seemed like such a long way down; Jordan remained where she was, worrying her lower lip. A thousand reasons to not jump flitted thru her mind.

_Do it Jordan—just do it_.

Closing her eyes, Jordan hoped for the best; she stepped off the branch. With an involuntary cry, the Immortal plunged towards the ground; the terrifying feeling of weightlessness sent her stomach churning. Suddenly, the sensation ceased. Cautiously peeking thru her lashes, Legolas' impossibly blue eyes peered at her, a big grin on his gorgeous face. He remained upright. Nor did it seem as if his back hurt.

"You have eaten well for lunch." He commented, pretending to stagger beneath her weight.

The Immortal threw her head back and laughed with relief and delight. She liked that the Elf had a sense of fun and humor; unfortunately for her, it added to his already great appeal. Jordan could not quite believe he caught her, yet there she was in his arms; the still forest rang with the sound of her giddy laughter. Despite her determination to keep him at arm's length, her heart traitorous heart felt otherwise. Legolas was amazing, and to her eyes, she was beginning to see him as larger than life. The Wood Elf playfully tossed her in the air as if she weighed no more than a child, catching her easily before he spun her around. Jordan threw her arms around his neck, hugging him close while the forest whirled into a green blur; the only thing in focus was Legolas, and that suited her fine. Her decision to jump was symbolic of everything about this adventure: trust in the Elf, willingness to suspend her disbelief and live for the moment. . . If only she could silence the small voice in the back of her mind reminding her she didn't belong in this world. Setting her gently on her feet, Legolas held her hand, leading her forward. Unresisting, Jordan followed willingly as Legolas led her further into the forest. He showed her deeply shadowed hollows and hidden waterfalls, laughing when she vigorously declined his invitation to explore the dark caves. As they explored, Legolas taught her a bit of the Elvish language, which Jordan dutifully parroted back. During their hike, Legolas pointed out various plants noted for their healing properties; one in particular, Athelas—or Kingsfoil, seemed to be the middle-earth equivalent to a 'cure all', at least for many ailments. Jordan marveled at the variety of flowers; among them were anemones, and other unfamiliar blooms growing rampant, carpeting the forest floor in living, vivid color. She breathed deeply, inhaling the sweet fragrance rising from the flowers. Legolas' head cocked to the side, listening. Leaving her to enjoy the flowers, he silently walked towards a tree partly obscured by thick underbrush; a small, well-worn path almost hidden by the growth. Gesturing for her to come, Legolas whispered loud enough for her to hear:

"Dina (be silent)" Legolas said as he placed a finger to his lips.

Holding a branch aside for her, he pulled her closer to him. Jordan swallowed, assuming he was going to kiss her again. She braced herself to resist when he inclined his head, indicating she should look. Puzzled and slightly miffed, she did. Less than five feet away stood a doe with her twin fawns, their light brown coats dotted with white. Nervous, the doe's ears twitched, her black nose testing the air.

Jordan didn't move, transfixed by the sight before her. The doe was much larger than what she expected, the fawns tiny in comparison. Frolicking at their mother's hooves, they paused, sensing their presence; one fawn wobbled towards them—it stopped two feet away, curious. Jordan was convinced if she reached out, she could touch it, when, responding to a silent command, the little one returned to it's mother's side, re-joining it's twin. The doe looked at them, ears twitching, before silently leading her pair deeper into the forest. Jordan watched them leave, still in awe. Looking up to see the Elf scrutinizing her closely, she was intensely aware of their close proximity. Legolas' eyes were so clear, so blue; she could stare at him forever. As his face neared, her lips parted, anticipating another kiss, when the insistent voice in her mind warned her to be careful, to keep her distance. It whispered in her mind to heed the warning in her dream. Reluctantly, Jordan pretended a sneeze and stepped away from the Elf. The moment was gone. Ruined. Legolas followed, a frown marring his smooth face.

"Mani naa ta?(What is it?)"

"Oh, umm-just my allergies. I think we'd better go back." She lied, keeping her eyes averted as she walked away.

"Al—allur…?" he stumbled over the unfamiliar word.

"'Allergy.' Something that makes you sneeze. 'Allergies' for plural." Jordan rubbed her nose and sniffed several times for good measure. Legolas was puzzled, for the blatant untruth was plain as if she had said an Orc was behind him. Slightly hurt that she rebuffed his kiss, he reached for her hand.

_Oh, Legolas, you're not making this easy for me . . ._

Jordan's resolve was rapidly fading. The Immortal knew she was sending mixed signals, yet she could not help herself. There were too many conflicting emotions she was feeling when the Elf was near; both her sane, rational head and her feeling, emotional heart dictated her actions, resulting in one very confused Immortal. At this precise moment, her heart won; deciding it best to wean herself from him slowly, Jordan's fingers curled around his. They hadn't gone far when the Elf stopped. Jordan looked at him questioningly.

"Rivendell is that way." Legolas smiled at her, indicating the opposite direction with a nod over his shoulder. Cheeks flaming, Jordan grinned back.

"I knew that!" Laughing together, Legolas pulled her in the right direction. The shadow of her rejection vanished as they shared the joke, his good humor returning.

"You do not fear high places. What were you doing?"

"I was thinking about home." Jordan replied.

Legolas' lighthearted mood deserted him. Home. Why did the simple word unsettle him so, the Elf wondered; he was at a loss to explain. The Mirkwood Prince gently released her hand. Jordan immediately felt the change in his mood. Legolas kept his eyes forward as they walked.

"You would return." He said flatly.

"Legolas…this isn't my home; I don't belong here—wouldn't you want to go home if you were me?" Her words brought the Elf to a halt; turning his bright gaze down at her, in his eyes was an unfathomable expression.

"Were I to have ample reason, I would choose to stay." The underlying meaning in his words was unmistakable.

Did she have a reason to stay? She had her life waiting for her. If she could return to it, that is. Her life. Her job . . . Duncan. Unsure how to respond, Jordan looked down, studying her boots as if they held the answers to her dilemma. Looking up at the Elf, she chose her words carefully before speaking, her voice soft, filled with regret.

"If I had a choice-"

"Do you not? You say you wish to return, yet after your attempt, you still remain." his blue eyes held her in place. A brief look of confusion crossed her face before understanding dawned. Apparently he witnessed her attempts to find her way back; a smile quirked her lips.

"Oh . . . you saw that. Yes, well, I'm still here—but for how long, Legolas? My presence here is a temporary fluke; when I return, all of this may seem like nothing more than a dream." She said, indicating the forest with her arms spread wide.

"You may not even remember me." Jordan said.

Legolas watched her, his fair face unreadable. The Elf could not argue with the logic behind her statement. A creature of magic himself, he knew magic of unparalleled strength would have been the only way possible to bring her to Middle Earth. If she hadn't appeared the way she did, he might dismiss her as merely delusional; yet everything about her witnessed the truth that she was indeed not of this world. Legolas had no answer for her; instead, he walked away. Sadly, Jordan watched his retreating figure, convinced she would do them both a favor by keeping her distance.

"You may be nothing more than a dream…a wonderful, impossible dream." She whispered in a dejected undertone to herself.

Legolas paused in mid-stride, cast her a sidelong glance over his shoulder, waiting for her. Jordan schooled her features into a neutral expression before she caught up with him; they walked in silence, not touching. Trying to lighten the mood, she plied him with questions about Mirkwood; Legolas offered nothing more beyond the answer to her questions. Feeling wretched, Jordan fell silent. After a while they emerged from the tree line, the glade before them, and beyond it, her quarters visible in the distance. Unsure what to say to ease the tension between them, with a sigh, Jordan turned to thank Legolas for his company, only to see he was gone.

Confident Jordan could safely find her way back to her quarters from the glade, Legolas took to the trees, moving swiftly and silently as only Elf-kind are able. He struggled to understand and control the unfamiliar emotions roiling within him, dismayed to acknowledge just how strongly he felt about her, deeply troubled to realize how much he wanted her to stay.


	9. Across Time and Space

I Will Find You

-Clannad

TheLast of The Mohicans Original Motion Picture Soundtrack

No matter where you go

I will find you

If it takes a long, long time

No matter where you go

I will find you

If it takes a thousand years

In the place with no frontiers

No matter where you go

I will find you

Seacouver

Washington

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod—the most powerful Immortal alive—paced his apartment loft, a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon wine in hand. Swirling the liquid, he raised the goblet to his nose and deeply inhaled the aroma wafting upwards; the full-bodied bouquet did little to ease his troubled mind. The Highlander's dark hair was mussed; a frown marred his ruggedly handsome face. Something was very wrong; he felt it in his gut. Jordan vanished without a trace. Walking to his balcony, he stared unseeingly towards the woods as his thoughts returned to that day…

_: : : : "Duncan, do we really have to do this? Isn't it overrated? I feel like I'm in one of those cheesy kung-fu movies." His student whined. _

_Jordan looked at him, her brow furrowed in a stubborn plea. The Teacher had been training his Student for the better part of the morning, with the emphasis on flexibility, or rather, her supposed lack of it. Locking Jordan's sticks into a bo staff, Duncan held it at waist level, and instructed her to do back-flips over it, down the length of the dojo, his eyes on the staff as he held it steady. Jordan made faces at her Mentor, mimicking him as he spoke. When Duncan glanced at her, Jordan quickly schooled her features into an innocent, attentive expression. The Chieftain's Son looked at the younger Immortal sharply, aware she was mocking him, unable to catch her in the act. _

"_Jordie, just pretend you're a kid again—after all, how difficult are cartwheels and back flips? In a fight, you must use all _

_of your resources, especially if you lose your sword - you know that. When I fought Jacob Kell, he was prepared for everything. You, on the other hand, aren't even a century old. Remember, you're alive as long as you've got your head on your shoulders. Now, come on - no more arguments." _

_Ignoring her dramatic sigh, Duncan signaled for her to begin. Starting slowly, Jordan completed ten back flips in rapid_

_succession, bumping the bo three separate times. _

"_How do you feel?" Duncan asked her. _

"_Dizzy." Jordan replied; closing her eyes, she waited for the room to stop spinning._

"_Then you will continue until you're not." Duncan smiled at Jordan's scowl. _

_Grudgingly, she nonetheless complied. With her second attempt, Jordan completed the flips quicker, hitting the bo only once. The demanding perfectionist he is, Duncan put his student through the rigors of back flipping until Jordan was able to perform the exercise flawlessly and vertigo free. _

"_Now how do you feel?" the Highlander inquired._

"_Like kicking you." Jordan replied, half-serious._

"_Oh yeah?" arching a dark brow at the woman, Duncan's lips quirked into a sardonic smile._

"_Yeah." She said._

"_You'll get your chance. Now pay attention; your bo is an extension of yourself." the Highlander was businesslike once again._

"_Tell me something I don't already know." She replied saucily._

"_Think you know it all, eh?" Duncan studied the woman before him, his eyes narrowing._

"_I know enough." Jordan's voice faltered, her bravado steadily wilting under the Highlander's suddenly menacing gaze._

"_Oh yeah?" Duncan challenged; circling his student, he slowly twirled the staff._

"_Yeah." Jordan tracked him, her muscles tensed as she readied herself for Duncan's attack._

"_Hush and learn before you get a sound beating." The Highlander said._

"_Bring it on!" came her pert reply._

_Spinning the bo, Duncan suddenly rushed Jordan, attempting to sweep her feet from under her. Jordan jumped up; planting her right foot in his chest, she used the Clansman as a springboard to launch into a back flip, and sailed over the spinning staff, safely out of reach. _

"_Nice move." The Highlander allowed._

_Landing lightly, Jordan didn't have a chance to reply as she cart wheeled, avoiding the vicious jab aimed at her side. She followed with a back flip as Duncan attempted to give her a concussion with the end of the staff. It missed Jordan by mere inches; she could feel the breeze the bo generated as it whistled past. _

"_Never underestimate your opponent." The Highlander cautioned before springing towards her once again, whirling the staff above his head and around his body._

_Aggressively stabbing, thrusting, and angling the bo to sweep her feet from beneath her, Duncan forced Jordan back. Her seventh back flip brought her to the weapons hanging upon the wall, on the floor beneath lay bos of varying lengths. Ducking as the Chieftain's Son swung at her head, Jordan snatched a staff from the floor; hands gripping the weapon shoulder width, she brought it up, blocking the Highlander's strike, then quickly down again, pinning his foot to the floor as he attempted to kick her in the jaw; using one end to pin Duncan's foot to the floor, Jordan raised the other end perpendicular to her Mentor's stick._

"_Your bo can be your best friend in a fight, especially if you can't get to your sword- if you wish to keep your distance, or stay out of reach." Breathing naturally, the Highlander looked down at Jordan, continuing his lecture as if they were merely conversing- not training._

_Jordan used her staff to block and counter his attacks while regaining her feet; Teacher and Student continued to spar. The dojo echoed with the whooshing__, __clacking sounds of their staffs connecting. Bodies leaping and twisting, legs kicking, an hour passed, time slipping by unnoticed._

"_With little effort you can easily disarm your opponent..." _

_Jordan's reaction was a fraction too slow avoiding Duncan's quick stab to her right knee. It buckled, bringing her down; the Highlander swung his bo down, intent on dislocating her shoulder. Raising her staff, Jordan thwarted his move. Their staffs again perpendicular, Jordan's bending in the center as Duncan leaned heavily against it. Not bothering to hide the smug grin on his handsome face, the Highlander's teeth gleamed white against his tanned skin, long dimples carved his cheeks as he spoke._

"…_.and give her a sound beating. Got it?" The Clansman asked._

_At Jordan's humiliated nod, Duncan stepped back, leaning against his staff._

"_Good! Now to our Katanas." _

_The woman's Mentor extended a hand to help her up; for a second, Jordan seriously considered swatting it away before she gripped his hand and allowed the Highlander to pull her to her feet. Her pride wounded, Jordan snatched the staff her Teacher held out to her; chuckling softly, Duncan ignored the woman's baleful glare, but not before giving her a self-satisfied smile as he retrieved their swords. Blowing a raspberry at his retreating back, Jordan returned the borrowed staff, limping heavily as she walked; her knee smarted terribly. Unlocking her sticks, Jordan resisted the foolish urge to throw them at Duncan; instead, she wisely put them away, mindful of the fact she couldn't outrun the Highlander in her present condition. Resigned to her long day of conditioning, Jordan reluctantly made her way to the center of the dojo, pushing her sweat-drenched hair out of her face. Catching her Katana as Duncan tossed it to her, mentally pushing past the pain of her sore knee, the young Immortal heaved a long-suffering sigh; at her Mentor's signal, Jordan assumed a strong fighting stance._

_Swords held high, the Immortals rushed towards one another. Their Katanas sang and brilliant sparks flew as their blades scraped together. Feinting, parrying, thrusting and countering, they circled one another warily, looking for weak points. Lunging, Duncan's Katana enveloped his Student's; with a quick flick of his wrist, the Highlander effortlessly disarmed Jordan, sending her Katana skittering across the hardwood floor. With a quick glance, Jordan gauged the distance to her weapon as Duncan came at her. _

_Completing two quick back flips, Jordan carefully timed her move; ducking under his passing blade, she stepped into his personal space—too close for him to do damage - unless he release his sword or head butt her. Jordan pinched Duncan's cheek as she stuck her tongue out at him, earning her a stern glare in return as she easily ducked below the Highlander's whirling blade. _

_Dropping into a defensive crouch, leg extended as she attempted to sweep her Mentor's feet out from under him, the Highlander evaded the maneuver; Duncan's front kick caught Jordan under the chin. To prevent her jaw from absorbing the brunt of his kick, she followed the momentum of her head into a back flip; the woman's foot caught the Highlander under his chin as well. Jordan was rewarded when she heard him grunt and his teeth snap together as he staggered back, momentarily stunned. _

_Before Duncan could recover, Jordan took advantage of the opportunity that presented itself. Her hands were a blur as she delivered a flurry of rapid punches to his abdomen and sternum; pivoting, Jordan tightly tucked her right leg and launched into a jumping round kick; the woman's left leg lashed out, her foot connecting with the Highlander's jaw. Spinning in the air, her right heel connected with Duncan's chin. Landing on her feet, she followed with a hard left-right jab, before running to her katana. Snatching it up, the woman whirled, bracing the flat of her blade against her right palm as she blocked Duncan's downward attack. Using her body weight as leverage, with a grunt, Jordan used her katana to push him back as they circled each other, breathing hard._

"_You've made your point, Duncan." She said tightly._

_Jordan's jaw ached from the impact of the Highlander's kick; despite their full-contact session, she had much to be thankful for - she didn't bite her tongue off, nor were any teeth knocked loose (that she could tell)._

"_Good. Remember it. We live violent lives, Jordie. Like it or not, as long as you've your head, you're in the Game." Duncan said. Jordan crowed inside as the Clansman worked his jaw; apparently her kick had some zing in it as well._

"_What if I don't want to play the Game anymore?" Jordan asked._

_Duncan stood still, lowering his Katana as he thoughtfully considered her words. _

"_There are two sure ways to remove yourself from the Game: the Sanctuary- which was rebuilt, or lose your head. The first option has a terrible price to pay, the second . . . " The Highlander's words trailed off; a faraway look entered his eyes as he recalled the most recent definitive moment of his long life._

_For a brief second, Jordan glimpsed the raw pain on his face before he came back to himself; suspecting it was related to the Immortal Kell, she didn't have a chance to ask as Duncan resumed his fighting stance. Automatically, Jordan mirrored her Teacher – and it was a good thing, for the Highlander leaped at her cat-quick. Out of pure reflex, Jordan brought her Katana up. Once again sparks flew in all directions. _

"_The second way is not an option, and we're going to make sure of that, right?" Duncan said, his voice low; holding her gaze over their crossed blades; the intensity in his eyes caught Jordan off guard._

_In an unexpected move, the Clansman grabbed his Student's sword arm and brought it down; Jordan's blade rested on Duncan's shoulder, his blade perpendicular to hers behind his head as he firmly gripped her arm._

"_A wise Highlander once said the Game is also about manipulation of the mind." Duncan murmured softly, almost to himself._

_Perplexed, Jordan looked at her Teacher. Indicating her advantage with a pointed glance, she said,_

"_Well, unless you're planning to donate your Quickening, I'd say manipulation isn't necessary here."_

"_Isn't it?" Duncan retorted. _

_With a hard shove, he pushed her arm away; in order to keep her balance, her body followed. As Jordan came about, her blade was at the ready. However, she was thoroughly dismayed to find Duncan's katana resting against her neck. The razor-sharp edge bit eagerly into the delicate flesh—she was completely at his mercy. Jordan stood very still; the cold expression in the Highlander's dark eyes suddenly made her extremely nervous. Swallowing convulsively, tiny beads of perspiration appeared, dotting her upper lip. _

"_If I choose to, your Quickening would be mine right now. This move, properly executed, is unstoppable. Remember well, Jordan. Connor MacLeod taught me this move and I used it against Kell, but he was prepared for it. Are you?" : : : : _

That was yesterday-it seemed so long ago, yet it was a mere twenty-four hours since he last saw her. That same evening, they were to have dinner together and watch a movie afterwards. It was unlike Jordan to miss an appointment, especially after they confirmed plans following their morning workout; to sweeten the deal and soothe her bruised ego, he was buying.

According to statistics, the length of time a person is reported missing is inversely proportional to the chances of recovering said missing person Taking comfort that Jordan is no ordinary person, or unable to defend herself, the Highlander fervently hoped his student's weapons were with her, not used against her—and more importantly, that Jordan paid attention to her surroundings. The mounting frustration and gnawing fear brought back the dark and mysterious time when his Clansman, Connor MacLeod vanished; Duncan hoped Jordan's ending would not be as Connor's. The Highlander wracked his mind, searching for clues related to her disappearance, clues he might've missed, all with the same end result—nothing.

Duncan's worried gaze came to rest on the nondescript tube of metal resting on his coffee table. Placing his wine on the balcony railing, he strode to the sofa; sitting down, he stared at it before picking it up. Gunmetal gray in color, it gleamed dully in the light. Made of titanium, it possessed steel's strength, but not the weight, had twice the strength of aluminum and the added benefit of high resistance to corrosion. At his touch, it telescoped into a bo staff six feet long. Another trigger released the daggers ingeniously embedded at the ends—a deadly bonus, no doubt. Retracting the weapon into its compact form, he gently set it down before unfurling a bolt of black velvet. Nestled securely within lay a sheath housing half a dozen slender spikes. He was determined to personally place them in her hands, anticipating the expression on her face when she received them. He intended to present the gifts to her after dinner that evening, but her disappearance changed everything. Now they served as silent reminders of his quest, another reason to press onward with his search; standing abruptly, Duncan gave the weapons one last glace before he returned to the balcony and his glass of wine. Standing by the railing, his gaze fixed onto the woods in the distance, noting the Buzz that announced the arrival of his kind. 

_I will find you, Jordie. _ he swore.

Cradling his wine goblet by the bowl, unconsciously, Duncan's fingers tightened around the lead crystal; the delicate glass shattered in his hand, cutting it deeply. Closing his fingers into a tight fist, the Clansman welcomed the pain. Finally, Duncan opened his hand, allowing the jagged crystal shards to land at his feet with a musical, tinkling sound. The Highlander watched dispassionately as the dark red liquid mingled with his blood. Within seconds, the sparks of his Quickening appeared, dancing along his palm. Instantaneously, the layers of lacerated flesh approximated; the epidermis melded together smoothly, seamlessly. It was a handy and interesting benefit of Immortality, for the more Quickenings an Immortal acquired, the faster wounds healed; their constant struggles to survive, and battles fought over time enables Immortals to shrug off injuries and tolerate pain that would be fatal for mortal beings. Minor cuts and wounds mended instantly, serious injuries took longer to heal; the length of time for revival after 'death' is proportionally related to the strength of the Immortal. Decapitation is the ultimate end game for Immortals. Brushing his hand against his slacks, Duncan walked to the kitchen to retrieve a rag, broom and dustpan. Rapid knocks sounded at his front door; with swift strides, he crossed the room. Opening the door, he began without preamble.

"We need to talk." Duncan disappeared into the kitchen again, his words floating back to his guest.

"Now there's a greeting for you. By the way, yes, I'm fine, and the flight was long, and France sends its love."

"Hungry?" came the muffled response.

"Nah, I ate on the plane. Remind me to pack a lunch for the return flight."

Methos, the oldest living Immortal, entered the Highlander's apartment loft. Over 5,000 years old, he did not look a day over thirty-five. With a sigh, the Ancient One dropped his carry-on bags by the door and stretched his long limbs before ambling to the couch. Lowering his tall, lanky frame onto the cushions, Methos rested his head against the sofa's back and wearily rubbed his face with his hands; he felt thoroughly jet-lagged. The Eldest looked up at the sound of footsteps, Duncan held out a tall, frosty bottle of brew in one hand. Accepting the proffered beer with a nod of thanks, Methos took a long swig.

"You're spoiling me, MacLeod." The Ancient One quipped.

"I have a good reason to." Duncan replied.

"Ah . . . an ulterior motive. I should've known." Methos said wryly. The Antediluvian studied the younger Immortal, who held a broom and dustpan; a rag dangled from the Highlander's pant pocket.

"Spring cleaning, MacLeod?" he inquired.

"Something like that; there's broken glass on the balcony." Duncan replied.

"Should I ask?" Methos ventured.

"Not particularly." Came the dry response.

Methos smiled faintly, knowing better than to pursue the matter. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back again as Duncan swept up the broken glass; the Ancient One listened to the faint sound of his his friend and fellow Immortal clean the aforementioned mess, not bothering to open his eyes until Duncan's footsteps drew nearer, then stopped. With a sigh, Methos opened his eyes and blearily looked at the Highlander, waiting for Duncan to sit in the recliner across him before speaking.

_No rest for the weary. Might as well get it over with_. The Eldest thought to himself.

"What is so important that we can't talk about it over the phone?" Methos asked.

"Jordie's missing." Duncan said flatly.

The Ancient One didn't speak, nor did he react as he absorbed the Highlander's words. Had the Clansman been less preoccupied with his cares, he would have seen how the elder Immortal's weary expression was gone, how the Ancient One's eyes now held a sharp light - how Methos' patrician features were now arranged in a carefully neutral expression.

"Jordie. Jordan Waters . . . your Student. Missing. Are you sure?" Methos drawled. Preoccupied with the situation at hand, Duncan missed the hesitation in Methos' smooth voice.

"Of course I'm sure. She wouldn't disappear like that. She's not an active participant in the Game. In fact, she stopped

taking heads after her fifth one - that was thirty years ago."

"And how exactly do I figure in all of this?" Methos asked as he looked at his friend calmly, already knowing the answer.

"I came to you when Connor disappeared. I was right about it, eh? And I'm right about her." The Highlander tapped the recliner's arm for emphasis, the conviction in his voice absolute.

"I needed the benefit of your experience then, and I need it now. Something's not right. I can _**feel**_ it. We need to find her,

Methos; she could be in danger." The Highlander replied; the urgency in Duncan's voice made Methos sigh.

"First things first; since when did it become 'we'? And for that matter, have you ever thought that maybe she _doesn't_ want

to be found . . .? Sometimes an Immortal just needs to get away from it all for a while, yes?" Methos ventured.

The Ancient One's words faded at the Highlander's dark scowl. Methos recalled a time when he needed to do just that -

just vanish, and he went to great lengths to cover his tracks. Somehow, the Old Man suspected, Jordan's situation was . . . different. Young as she is, he didn't think she'd be _**that**_ good at pulling a disappearing act. She wasn't the dark, brooding type. That was both he and MacLeod's department. There were several occasions he wished Duncan hadn't found his conscience for him, and he was beginning to suspect tonight would be one such time. The oldest Immortal regarded the most powerful Immortal. Pursing his lips, Methos considered his options.

"I see; I hate to sound like a callous heel, but I am tired, Duncan. It was a rather long flight; the food was bad, and to make

matters worse, I sat two rows from a bloody toddler who didn't care for the flight-and he insisted the entire plane know of his plight. Yak butter is hell on your digestion, but toddlers are hell on your nerves. I think I'd rather have the yak butter. Correct that – I know I'd much rather have the yak butter. Can we please talk about this in the morning? I know you want to find Jordie as soon as possible, and I promise we'll figure something out. Things always look more clear in the morning, yes?"

Reluctantly, the Highlander nodded. Methos stood, grasping Duncan's shoulder reassuringly.

"If she's truly missing, we'll find her, Duncan." Methos said, looking Duncan in the eye.

"Go to sleep, Methos. Same room. I'll see you in the morning."

Duncan watched his guest—and best chance of finding Jordie—disappear down the hallway, before returning to his

balcony. Looking up at the ink black sky, the distant stars overhead were barely visible, obscured by the bright lights of the city.

"Where are you, Jordie?" He asked quietly.

There was no answer, save for the sounds of traffic in the streets far below. Giving the woods one last look, he turned away, slowly making his way to his bedroom. Bare-chested and wearing soft flannel pajama bottoms, Duncan lay in bed, heavily muscled arms tucked behind his head. Staring at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep, his thoughts returned to Jordan, unsure how to find her, wondering where she is; all the while the moon climbed higher into the night sky, the curtains stirring in the soft breeze blowing from his open windows. At long last, the Highlander's eyes grew heavy with sleep. On his dresser, bathed in moonlight, lay the box once containing the Lothlórien leaf, its delicately carved runes glowing brightly.


	10. Troubled Waters

Alone in the House of Healing, Læurenthail took inventory of, and rotated her stock of herbs and other medicines; as she worked, her thoughts centered on Jordan Waters. When not practicing her limited - but growing command of the Elvish language, the woman could be found amongst the Apprentices, helping them complete their tasks, no matter how menial they may be.

Watching the Healers hone and apply their skills, Jordan often compared Imladris' healing arts with those practiced in her land, describing them in vivid detail to the Head Healer. To the she-Elf, the woman's ways sounded unnatural; some practices were downright barbaric, if not steeped in witchery-especially the so-called ability to 'operate' on a person's brain while she or he is in a deep sleep. The she-Elf gave a delicate shudder and continued her pleasant task, lips pursed as she mulled her thoughts over:

_The woman is confused. She longs for 'home', yet she embraces Imladris . . . There is also more between Jordan and Lord Legolas than mere acquaintance. It is no secret, the romance between them. Some Elves disagree with his choice of consort, others see no harm in it— it will be but a brief moment in our eternal lives. The Prince—much to the disappointment and chagrin of many of our she-Elves—has eyes for Jordan alone. How unlike Lord Legolas to openly show affection—he cannot keep his hands to himself! His actions are never unseemly, yet it is highly entertaining to see the handsome and elusive Prince of Mirkwood quite taken with a mortal woman—of all things._ The she-Elf thought, chuckling softly.

As she became better acquainted with Jordan, Læurenthail's concern grew for both Jordan's and Lord Legolas' well-being.

_Arriving by unnatural means, when and if she returns 'home', someone will be left behind. What an ugly little puzzle . . . Lately, however, Jordan spends more time here than usual; as if she were . . . avoiding a certain fair Elf. Foolish woman - as if that would solve her dilemma. _

Although she sympathized with the Mirkwood Prince, the Healer found the situation highly entertaining. Surely his Lordship hadn't experienced such frustration with a maiden in an Age -and with a mortal! Legolas often came to the House with the plausible reason of requesting medicinal supplies for the pending hunt, his bright eyes casting about, searching for the woman. When Jordan was present, she and the Mirkwood Prince spoke in voices so low even the she-Elf had trouble hearing their words, though she did not actively eavesdrop on their conversations. As the Healer discretely observed the pair, Jordan stepped back from the golden Elf when he stood too near, or dropped what she held in her hands, stooping to pick it up as he raised a hand to touch her. Eventually his visits decreased before they stopped altogether. Hearing footsteps approach long before their owner appeared, Læurenthail turned towards the entrance.

"Love's path is seldom easy." the she-Elf murmured. Scarcely had the Healer uttered the words when Jordan appeared in the doorway.

"Good morn, little songbird." She smiled kindly at the woman; her observant gaze took in the faint circles under her eyes that frequently occurred of late, yet curiously always faded before the midday.

"Good morn, Læurenthail." Jordan gave her a wan smile. After greeting the she-Elf, Jordan wandered aimlessly about the room, absently touching the herbs laid out to dry on a rack.

"What needs to be done?" The woman asked in a dull voice; her cheerful disposition was markedly subdued.

The Healer studied her visitor, contemplating the task best suited for her. Deciding it behooved Jordan to keep busy, Læurenthail set her to work tearing linen into strips for bandages; the glum mood rested on the woman like a dreary mantle. Silently, Læurenthail returned to her task. Surreptitiously glancing at her visitor, the she-Elf's sympathy stirred; many times the woman would pause in her task and gaze out the window, her green eyes unfocused; confusion radiated from Jordan in waves. Læurenthail remained silent until her guest saw fit to speak of what troubles her so; the Healer didn't have to wait long. Having no one else to confide in, Jordan cautiously decided to open up to her.

"Læurenthail…have you ever wondered why certain things happen?"

"How do you mean?" The she-Elf asked.

"I don't know how and why I was brought here, or how and when I'll go home . . . " Jordan's words trailed off, her eyes troubled as she fingered the leaf at her neck. Studying the woman before her, Læurenthail considered her response.

"Does Rivendell make you unhappy?" the Healer asked.

"No! I mean, no—on the contrary, I'm very happy here. That's the scary part. The longer I'm here, the more I want to stay, but . . ." Jordan said; the woman before her looked thoroughly miserable.

"I dare say Lord Legolas would have you stay." Læurenthail said mildly. Jordan looked up sharply at her words.

"He's been very kind to me." She warily acknowledged.

"'Kind'? Is that what you call it?" Læurenthail's perfectly shaped brow arched in amusement at Jordan's refusal to admit it was more than mere 'kindness' on Lord Legolas' part.

"I'm not sure I know what his . . . 'feelings' for me are. It will end, whether by my return home, or …some other way. Surely I'm just a passing fancy."

The she-Elf is very observant; nothing gets by her unnoticed. Jordan noted.

"Jordan. I will speak plainly. You are a fool if you cannot see Lord Legolas has feelings for you." Læurenthail's gentle smile took the sting out of her words.

"I prefer the term 'unassuming'" Jordan replied dryly.

"We have a saying back home that if you 'assume' things, you pretty much end up looking like a jackass." At Læurenthail's blank stare, Jordan gave an unladylike snort, rolling her eyes.

"Forget it, Læurenthail, it's a 20th century thing." Sighing, Jordan returned to her task, venting her frustration by giving the linen a particularly vicious tear. Læurenthail tilted her head to one side, appraising the woman as she worked.

"Do you know what it means to be loved by an Elf?" Læurenthail asked. Not looking up from her task, Jordan replied.

"No, I don't; I believe you're about to enlighten me." She said, making an attempt to keep the mood light. Nonplussed by Jordan's casual attitude the Healer replied,

"It is forever. Timeless. Unchanging. Joinings between mortals and Elf-kind are not normally encouraged; mortals are subject to the ravages of time. If and when it does happen, most would not altar or choose otherwise. " Jordan did a mental double take as Læurenthail's words sunk in. Setting the linen down, Jordan's expression was disbelieving as she stared at the she-Elf; her gaze turned suspicious.

"'Love'?! Who said anything about 'love'? You're implying Lord Legolas is, or could possibly love - if not be in love with . . ._me_ ?" Jordan was unable to hold Læurenthail's unwavering gaze for long, breaking eye contact first.

"Attraction I can understand, lust even. But 'love'? That's a very bold assumption; I don't know what his exact feelings for me are, and I'm not going to jump to any conclusions. I've made that mistake before, and I don't plan on repeating it. It ..it's, oh-!" Jordan made a sound of frustration, unable to convey in words exactly what she wanted to say.

The conversation wasn't going as she'd hoped; in fact, it left her more confused as emotions she desperately wanted to deny surfaced and rapidly gained strength. Jordan did not understand what exactly it was between her and the fair Elf; she knew in her soul it was right; but, as Murphy's Law stated, it must be too good to be true; therefore, it could not be. Still, Læurenthail's words had their desired effect, planting a tiny seed of hope in Jordan's heart, to flourish if she would accept what was blatantly obvious to the Healer.

"Why is water wet and what holds the stars to their appointed course in the sky-does it matter?" Læurenthail asked.

"'Does it matter?' Of course it matters! I'm not exactly a resident of Middle-Earth, you know—I don't know when my tourist visa here is going to expire, and to top it all off, I finally fall in l-" Jordan's words came to an abrupt halt as her lips clamped shut. Realizing she said more than intended, Jordan quieted. In stilting tones, Jordan spoke again.

"I'm sorry, Læurenthail; I'm not quite myself." The Healer hid the smile on her face; much as the woman protested—perhaps too strongly, she had yet to answer her question. Læurenthail repeated her query.

"Jordan, can you not simply accept what is?" the she-Elf's quiet words filled the airy room. The woman looked at Læurenthail, her mouth working, but no words were uttered. Head bowed, Jordan's face was hidden from view by her raven tresses. The silence stretched between them before the woman finally spoke.

"I'm afraid to." Jordan said, her voice so faint the she-Elf felt more than heard her reply.

Looking up at Læurenthail, Jordan's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. The she-Elf's steady, empathetic gaze was almost Jordan's undoing—almost.

What is wrong with me?! Jordan berated herself, unsure why she was so emotional, and more than a touch angry with herself for the sudden tears. The Immortal pasted a bright but watery smile on her face, clearing her throat before changing the conversation to a neutral topic, thankful the Healer did not pursue the matter further.

"I went on a walk not too long ago, and I ran into Lord Legolas—actually, he found me . . ." Jordan shared with Læurenthail the tree incident, but left out the minor detail of the kiss they shared. The woman also told Læurenthail of the phrase Legolas taught her. According to him, he claimed it would come in handy the next time she was angry with him.

"And what would that be?" The she-Elf queried. Jordan took a moment to go over the phrase in her mind, wanting to articulate it correctly. With a smile, she said,

"A helta ar caita caimanna!" Jordan beamed at Læurenthail, pleased with herself; It was quite a feat, considering she learned it only recently. Læurenthail's eyes widened, her expression comically shocked.

"Pretty good, yes?" Speechless, the Healer blinked several times before she found her voice.

"Did Lord Legolas tell you what it meant?" Læurenthail asked, smiling. Jordan looked at her quizzically and shook her head 'no'; the smile on the woman's face began to fade at the Healer's reaction.

"I believe its Quenya in dialect. Loosely translated into Common, it means 'take off your clothes and lie down on the bed!'" Jordan paled before turning a bright shade of red. The she-Elf's soft laughter didn't ease Jordan's discomfiture. Desperately wanting to change the subject, she asked the meaning of another word Legolas had used.

"What does 'Melamin' mean?" Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, the way Læurenthail's lips quirked raised Jordan's suspicions.

"Should I even ask—do I want to know?" the woman asked dryly, bracing herself for the unexpected.

"Do you wish to know?" The she-Elf returned, eyeing the woman with a teasing smile.

"It can't be any worse than what he just taught me; what does it mean?" Jordan said, her tone hesitant.

"'My love'." Læurenthail replied.

With a knowing smile on her lips, the Healer watched Jordan's reaction. Resigned to the possibility it could be another potentially embarrassing phrase, Jordan was caught off guard, cringing inwardly at Læurenthail's smug expression. Any further discussion was thankfully interrupted as Læurenthail's gaze fixed on something over Jordan's shoulder. Apprehensive, Jordan turned, dreading another visit from Legolas. For both their sakes, she had to keep up her façade of disinterest; uncertain how long she could maintain it, Jordan wanted to follow her unruly heart. The hurt expression in Legolas' blue eyes when she forced herself remain unresponsive to him or avoid his touch wounded her deeply as well as weakened her resolve. It was with a mixture of disappointment and relief that she saw a servant had silently appeared in the doorway, bowing respectfully to the Healer before addressing the woman.

"Lord Elrond wishes to speak with you, Lady Waters." Giving the still grinning Læurenthail a feeble smile, Jordan excused herself and followed the servant, the Healer's tinkling laughter following her out the door.

_Could it be? Is it possible for him to feel that way about me? It can't happen._ She told herself sternly.

Jordan didn't have much time to mull it over more as they arrived at their destination. Led to a private study, Lord Elrond stood before an open window, facing west, his back towards her. She glanced around the room, admiring the beautiful tapestries displayed on the walls; sconces held thick ivory pillars, the melted wax giving the room an antiquated feel. A large table stood off to the side; scattered on its gleaming surface were scrolls, some rolled up, and others open; several quills and a pot of ink lay nearby. Just like Rivendell, everything in the room was beautiful; the colors a continuation of nature just beyond the windows. Jordan stood, unsure what to do; she glanced towards the servant who escorted her, only to find him gone.

_These Elves are quieter than ghosts_! Sighing silently to herself, Jordan turned back to see Lord Elrond studying her.

_What am I supposed to do?_ Jordan floundered for a moment before bobbing a quick curtsey.

The Immortal gave the Ruler a tentative smile as he inclined his head, indicating she should sit with a graceful sweep of his right hand. Lord Elrond remained standing, his gaze solemn and searching as he watched Jordan select a seat suited for her petite size. At the feast, he noticed she had experienced several moments' discomfort when seated, for her feet often dangled, not reaching the floor. The chairs suited for cultures of lesser statures were, unfortunately, unavailable, for they were all in use at that time. The woman settled herself in an elaborately carved chair, folded her hands in her lap and gazed at him expectantly. There was something about the Lord of Rivendell that made her feel he could probe her innermost thoughts with a single glance; the uneasy feeling fluttered in her stomach like a caged butterfly, making Jordan want to bolt from the room, to put distance between her and the Elf.

_Get a grip, Jordan—you can do this. All he wants to do is talk—not know your life story _

"Lady Waters. It is plain to see you are not from this land." Lord Elrond said. She couldn't help but smile at the understatement.

"Yes, my Lord. I prefer to think of myself as a displaced tourist." Jordan quipped, in an attempt to disguise her trepidation.

"'Displaced tourist?'" he echoed.

Jordan almost laughed at the regal Elf's confused expression. Reminding herself she was speaking with the Lord of this realm, Jordan quickly continued, "I'm from way far away, way out West, from what I can tell."

_Gee, I should've asked to see a map of this place. Seacouver's on the west coast-I hope I picked the right direction. _

The Elf-Lord frowned slightly, considering her words.

"You come from beyond the Grey Havens?" The way Lord Elrond spoke made it seem more of a statement than a question.

"Mmm.. yes—you could say that." She replied weakly. Deciding the Ruler of Imladris deserved the truth—at least what she could safely reveal, Jordan drew a steadying breath.

"My Lord, you wouldn't happen to have a map of Middle-Earth, would you?" she asked.

The Elf raised an eyebrow at that. His curiosity piqued, he walked, seeming to glide to the table she glanced at earlier. Removing a large scroll, he brought it to Jordan, handing it to her. Holding it carefully, she unfurled it; despite it's size, it was light easy to handle. Looking at the drawings on the map, she couldn't read the beautiful, calligraphic writing. Wishing she paid more attention to her geography classes, she studied it carefully.

_If I didn't know any better, Middle Earth could pass for ancient, primeval, pre-historic Europe. _

Deciding to stay with her original answer, she pointed to the western most regions, her finger resting on a blank part of the map.

"I know this sounds crazy, but I'm not from this land, and I'm definitely not from this time." Jordan said, meeting the Elf's gaze. To her surprise, the Elven Lord simply smiled.

"I gathered that much, Lady Waters. Sometimes the Valar are mysterious in their ways. What puzzles me is how you possess the leaf of Lórien." Touching the leaf at her neck, she answered slowly.

"It all started as a gift. This is given to me by an acquaintance; a few days later, I was lost in a bright light. Lord Legolas and Master Gimli found me in Trollshaw Forest with the Orcs. Then we traveled here. I don't understand how all this came about, or even why it did. I'm not even sure how to find my way back. What I do find, is that I am deeply in your debt for all you've done for me." Lord Elrond's arched eyebrows rose. There was no mistaking the ring of truth in her voice, nor the sincerity emanating from her.

"Very well, Lady Waters. You are welcome to remain in Rivendell for the duration of your . . . stay. If you desire answers, Mithrandir is expected in Gondor at the turn of the season. If you wish to seek his counsel, surely Lord Legolas and Master Gimli would be willing to escort you there. I shall speak with them about the matter." Turning, he dismissed her. As she stood to leave, Jordan hesitated, gathering her courage.

"Thank you, Lord Elrond; as I said, I am deeply indebted to you; I could never repay your hospitality, but I would like to try. Lord Legolas spoke of the Orcs and a hunting party. I ask that you let me go. I can help. I can fight-Lord Legolas and Master Gimli know it as well. Allow me to do this for Rivendell. Please." The Elf turned back to Jordan, a frown on his aristocratic face.

"I do not expect my guest and a woman at that to fight Orcs. It would be folly." The Elven Lord's disapproval was plainly written on his face. Jordan silently bristled at the implication of incompetence.

"It would be my privilege. Please, my Lord." Raising an eyebrow, he seemed to be weighing a decision, holding her gaze for what felt like a very long time.

Jordan's chin lifted slightly; her expression deceptively calm as she stared back at the Elven ruler as he studied her, his face unreadable. Looking deep into her eyes, a sudden vision flashed in his mind. In it, he saw Jordan engaged in a duel against another combatant. The ease with which she used her unusual sword left no doubt her words were true; however, the level of skill she possessed remained to be seen. Just as suddenly as it came, the vision disappeared. Blinking, abruptly he answered.

"Very well, Lady Waters. I do not agree with your decision, yet I will grant you this request—take heed, you are not bound by your words. You have a fortnight to consider your choice." Gravely, Jordan nodded, oddly touched that the Elven Lord would have a small measure of concern for her safety.

"Thank you, my Lord." Sensing her audience with Lord Elrond had come to an end, Jordan stood and quietly left the room. Lord Elrond watched the woman leave, his brow creased in thought. Although he had serious reservations about Jordan's participation in the pending hunt, he was certain beyond all doubt she would not fall in battle, nor be counted among the injured; the fighting prowess of the Elves would not allow Legolas' guest to come to harm – nor would Legolas.

There was little in Imladris that the Ruler did not know of, especially if it concerned his odd guest. From her early morning strolls, to her night on the rooftop, even the kisses and soft touches between the woman and the Prince of Mirkwood—Lord Elrond was privy to it all. There were, however, several aspects about Jordan Waters that remained shrouded in mystery, that even with his tremendous gift of foresight, he could not decipher. Closing his eyes, a thoughtful frown tugged his lips downward as he thought back to Jordan's arrival in Imladris…

"_Lay her here…" indicating the large bed in the center of the room, Læurenthail drew aside the diaphanous bed hangings as Lord Legolas gently placed his burden in the center, caressing the woman's dirty face before nodding to the Head Healer on his way out. Sitting in an impromptu council with other Eldars and advisors, Lord Elrond heard the two Walkers' account of the events en route to their arrival. After much discussion, decisions were made; he was curious to see his unexpected guest—this woman Jordan Waters. In the breezeway, Elrond Half-Elven passed a servant bearing away a bundle of dirty clothes; entering the guest quarters, the Head Healer greeted him. _

_His sharp gaze swept the room; on a table were weapons unlike any he had seen; he lightly touched the polished sticks, noting with interest the silvered stars cunningly attached to a swathe of soft black leather. What caught his attention was the sword—highly unusual in design, its razor-sharp edge would make any Elven master smith proud; even more remarkable is what he sensed within the sword. It possessed a life of it's own; not quite sentient, but a…palpable presence of some manner resided in the blade itself. _

_Walking to the side of the bed, he gazed down at the woman who lay before him in silent repose. Fair of feature for a Daughter of Man, his gaze traveled down her neck, to where the Leaf of Lórien lay. Lightly touching it, disjointed images flashed thru his mind with a speed and force that sent his senses reeling. In the center of his mind's eye stood Jordan; she physically remained unchanged, yet the passing of time manifested itself in her surroundings and clothing—landscapes and vegetation sprang up and withered away as if Nature itself had gone mad—changing at speeds too quick for even his mind to follow. Structures rose and fell in a land where all things green and good ebbed away till nothing but small patches remained, hemmed in by great structures of stone and metal, the balance of nature upset as the night was brightly lit, though the sun was not in the sky. _

_Futilely grasping at the fleeting images, they vanished, turning inward upon themselves; Jordan, stood in the midst of a lightning storm, sword raised triumphantly, consumed and illuminated by brilliant forked tongues of lightning streaming from the sky and enveloping her, yet she remained unharmed . . . shadowy figures engaged in combat, swords flashing and sparks flying. Constant and overshadowing the alien imagery was the ruggedly handsome face of a Man…a Sword master of some manner. Awareness of the link between the Man and the woman before him teased the edges of Lord Elrond's mind; he instinctively knew it was of great importance. Try as he might, he could not divine the reason or purpose to Jordan Water's presence in Imladris, other than she was needed—to whatever end remained cloaked and hidden from even him. _

_Breaking contact with the Leaf, Lord Elrond swayed slightly, massaging his throbbing temples as he sought to clear his mind of the jumbled images and sensations assaulting his mind. Immediately, the Head Healer was at his side. Raising a hand to stay her questions, Jordan's soft gasp seized their attention. _

"_She stirs." Læurenthail said; her soft voice seemed to rouse the woman, who attempted to sit up. _

_The she-Elf went to the woman as the Ruler of Imladris composed himself; the Healer gently but firmly pushed Jordan back down onto the pillows. Drawing a shaky breath, Imladris' Lord pulled his stately robes closer around himself. :::_

Opening his eyes, his mood pensive, Lord Elrond gazed out the open windows. The grandeur of his realm soothed his disturbed senses, his mind chewing over the mysteries surrounding Jordan Waters . . .yet, some mysteries were beyond even the wisest.


	11. The Three Hunters

Seacouver, Washington

72 Hours Later

Dawn arrived to find the Highlander busy in his kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee brewing filled the loft with its inviting aroma and floated down the hallway, rousing Methos from his slumber. With a groan, the Immortal turned his head, his eyes slitting open against the pale morning light; the digital numbers of the alarm clock on the bedside table glowed a lurid red, announcing the unholy hour of six o'clock in the morning. Ignoring his belly's insistent growl and his body's craving for caffeine, Methos rolled onto his stomach and promptly fell back asleep. Sitting down to his breakfast, Duncan sipped his coffee and waited for his meal to cool. Spearing a sausage link, the Highlander placed it in his mouth; chewing automatically, he hardly tasted his food—instead, the Scot's mind was consumed with finding Jordan. There was a feeling of dread—an urgency bordering on desperation that spurred him on. The Immortal couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that time is of the essence, of which every passing minute is working against him. Duncan finished his meal in silence, all the while hoping Methos would wake soon; glancing hopefully down the dim hallway, not a sound could be heard.

"Come on, Old Man—time's not exactly our friend," he mumbled to himself. Tired from his sleepless night, his Scottish brogue became more pronounced; taking a gulp of coffee, Duncan waited impatiently for the caffeine to kick in.

Restless, the Highlander cleared his breakfast dishes, setting his kitchen back in order. Making a plate of food for his friend, Duncan placed it in the oven to keep warm and took his mug of coffee out to the balcony. Below, the streets were slowly coming alive with morning commuters on their way to work; shopkeepers hosed down and swept their front stoops preparing for the day's business. Brooding, Duncan stayed outside, oblivious to the passing of time. The sound of cutlery clattering in the kitchen brought the Immortal out of his reverie. Glancing at his watch, the Scot wasn't surprised to find it was almost 11 a.m.

"About time, Methos." He muttered softly to himself.

"Breakfast is in the oven!" Duncan called over his shoulder. Yawning, the older Immortal returned the bowl, flaked cereal and spoon to their original places.

"Morning, MacLeod. Thanks for breakfast." Methos' words floated out to his friend. Draining his mug of the last dregs of cold coffee, the Highlander joined his friend in the kitchen.

"More like 'afternoon', Methos." The Highlander snorted, annoyed. Noting the ease and familiarity with which his friend moved about, Duncan still wasn't sure if it was a good or bad thing as he quoted his friend's words from many moons ago.

"'Mi casa es su casa, eh'?" Duncan's grin didn't quite reach his eyes. The Ancient One grunted as he sat down to his meal.

"Sleep well? Bed not too soft?" the Scot inquired nonchalantly, trying to keep the impatience he was feeling from his voice.

"Well enough, thanks. So, I take it you still haven't heard from the lady . . .?" Duncan shook his head 'no'; the muscles of his jaw were clenched tightly in his frustration.

"You'll break your teeth if you keep doing that." Methos said mildly. The Highlander shot the elder Immortal a dirty look, which was ignored.

"Dare I ask what the day holds, MacLeod?" Methos asked; slicing his sausage in half and placing it atop the tomato and mozzarella cheese, the elder Immortal took a large bite of the thick sandwich, closing his eyes as he savored the flavors bursting in his mouth. It beat cold cereal any morning. Duncan waited for him to swallow before answering.

"Joe's coming at noon to see what he can do to help. In the meantime, I was hoping you'd tell me what you know." He replied.

"What I know?" Methos echoed, bewildered. He took another bite of his sandwich and chased it down with a gulp of coffee.

"What I know about what? I'm not psychic. Besides, shouldn't it be the other way around—you're the one who called me, remember? I'm just here to help—if I can, that is." The Ancient One said. Duncan merely smiled. The Highlander knew his Elder could be of help. The tricky part would be convincing him to help.

"I'll fill you in after you finish breakfast; there are some things I need to take care of; I'll be in my office." Duncan said.

_Might as well prepare for the Inquisition. _The Ancient One thought to himself.

Shooting his friend an indecipherable look, Methos took another bite of his sandwich. Sliding off the kitchen stool, Methos stretched his lanky frame; the bagel had barely made a dent in his appetite, but he wasn't up to fixing another one.

"Well, I'd better not wear out my welcome . . ." Methos muttered to himself.

He cleared away his breakfast dishes and placed them in the dishwasher. Heading towards the shower, the Immortal nixed the idea of returning to bed for another snooze, knowing Duncan wanted to pick his brain as soon as possible. Stepping beneath the pulsating spray, Methos let the hot water massage away the stiffness in his muscles. Sleeping in a strange bed always made him sore in the morning, at least until he acclimated himself to his surroundings. Lathering up, Methos absently scrubbed his skin as he thought about the day he first saw Jordan Waters . . .

_::: Paris, France _

_Montparnasse Cemetery_

_Spring 1998_

_ It was well over a year before the Immortal known as Methos (or, as he preferred to be called - Adam Pierson, mild mannered Watcher to others) finally surfaced. Over a year was spent coming to terms with the grief of her loss; in time, the pain would fade, the rawness of grief ease, but never fully leave. He would live, and he would love as he had previously done in the centuries before . . .somehow. Her loss was different, and it affected him in ways that continued to surprise him. Standing before the black marble headstone, Methos' head bowed low. Grief and anger vied for expression on the angular planes of his aristocratically handsome face. Hunkering down, the Immortal rocked back on his heels before the grave marker, his head cradled in his hands, bittersweet memories replayed in his mind's eye. One in particular stood out; he remembered the way she looked when he gave her the tickets:_

"_You spend what ever time you have left dying, or you spend it living - with me." He told her. _

_The determination on her face as she decided to spend her remaining time truly living, to see the world with him, was seared in his memory. One year. The one-year they had together was spent loving, learning and discovering the wonders of the world, and all the while celebrating life itself. Up to the bitter end. Methos counted that year as one of the best in his long life. It was a full half hour before Methos looked up, his hand slowly reached out to lovingly trace the carvings on the glossy granite surface._

_Alexa Bond_

_Beloved_

"_Alexa . . ." Methos murmured, his voice cracking. _

_Fighting to maintain his composure, Methos steepled his index fingers together, then pressed them to his trembling lips. Regaining his composure, the Immortal took a steadying breath. _

"_So close. I came so close to saving your life. We'll never know if Methuselah's stone would've worked. This damned Immortality can be such a burden; I'd have gladly traded places with you if I could. You'll live in my memory and my heart, my love. I'll never forget you." He whispered to the silent marker. _

_Reaching inside his overcoat, Methos removed a slender glass vial from an inner pocket. Unscrewing the lid, he shook out a measure of its contents into his hand and poured some of the pale, golden sand atop the headstone, the rest he scattered over the lush green grass covering the grave. Brushing his hands together, Methos refastened the lid before placing the vial to the side of the headstone. _

"_I brought Egypt to you, my love. " he whispered softly. _

_With a sigh, the Immortal pressed two fingers to his lips then touched the cold headstone. Rising fluidly to his feet, _

_Methos took one last look at the engraved marker before he turned walked away. Sauntering along the busy rue, Methos crossed the street to his favorite sidewalk café; his step faltered slightly when he felt the Buzz; careful to not attract undue attention to himself, the Immortal expertly blended into the crowd; his dark eyes swept the gathered mass of humanity before coming to rest on a slip of a girl. An Immortal. Over time, Methos learned to appreciate fashion, and in the fashion Mecca of the world, it was with a practiced eye that he studied the yet-unknown Immortal. _

_Perched on her head at a jaunty angle was a straw hat to keep the cool spring sun off her face. Dressed in a short, tailored black skirt with opaque black tights, he followed the shapely legs down to her funky, chunky shoes. A fitted white shirt knotted fashionably at her waist completed the ensemble. Simple, hip yet classily sexy; the outfit flattered her figure nicely; apparently many men and some women thought so as well, judging by the openly admiring glances thrown her way. Appreciating the view so far, his gaze traveled upwards, to see if the rest of her matched up nicely. Her eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses; holding a map of the city in her hands, it fluttered in the spring breeze, threatening to take flight. Her head swiveled back and forth, as she searched for the source of the Buzz._

_She hasn't learned the art of subtlety. Either her Teacher's methods are lacking, or she needs one-or both__. Methos thought. _

_A sudden gust of wind blew her hat off her head, to reveal shiny black hair bound in a French braid, the long queue of it trailed down her back. Hesitating, the Unknown abandoned her search for the source of the Buzz, and chased her hat as it rolled down the sidewalk like a child's hoop, propelled by the wind, before an elderly gentleman kindly stopped the runaway hat. Straightening laboriously, he gave it to her with a nod and a smile. _

_The little fool needs to get her priorities straight! Choosing a hat over a potential threat. She definitely has a lot to learn. _

_Accepting it with a grateful smile of her own, the Immortal jumped in surprise when a bold young man pinched her on her derriere in admiration as he passed by. Indignant, she jammed the errant hat back onto her head, looking in vain for her amorous assailant. : :_

#

Turning the shower knob to cold, the Methos gasped with the sudden change, his skin tingling, tightening in reaction to the icy deluge.

_Never as good as a Quickening, but it'll do_

Rinsing off, the Immortal toweled himself dry before stepping out of the tub, wrapping the thick, soft cotton cloth around his narrow hips. Leaning on his hands, he stared at his reflection. Dark brown hair slicked back, his nose was a bit on the large side, but Alexa once told him it 'added character' to his face. To his recollection, it was never a hindrance, and she certainly never complained about it when they were locked in a passionate kiss or embrace. The bittersweet memory brought a sad smile to his face. Intelligent, dark eyes stared back at him-eyes thru which the wisdom and experience gleaned during his centuries of existence shone, or were masked at will.

Methos was a master at doling out his experience and wisdom to those he chose . . .as it suited his purpose. Tall, lanky and slighter in build than the big Scot, but no less capable, his wide shoulders could carry a custom-tailored tuxedo as easily as a shirt of chain mail, or a college sweatshirt, and he was just as comfortable wielding a sword or a pen. That was a definite plus of Immortality; other than keeping his sword skills up to par, Methos didn't need to worry about working out, unless it directly involved keeping his head on his shoulders. Not an ounce of fat was on his lean frame — fortuitous, given his love of beer. Shrugging to himself, the Ancient One smoothed shaving cream over his face and picked up his razor.

Powering down his computer, Duncan looked up at the sound of footsteps; the Highlander noted the Elder was dressed for comfort, resembling an overgrown college kid. Sprawled across the sofa in the younger Immortal's office, Methos looked around with interest, appreciating the Highlander's eclectic taste. Several objécts d'art were scattered about, some of which were used as paperweights. Following his friend's gaze, Duncan's thoughts were similar. There were definite advantages to being independently wealthy. Collecting souvenirs and artifacts from his wanderings and many adventures over the centuries, and recycling the antiques enabled him to command top dollar; his wise investments over the years afforded him the luxury of setting his own schedule. With a sigh, Methos looked at Duncan.

"So, where do we begin?" About to speak, Duncan was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.

"Expecting someone, Highlander?" Methos asked.

"Joe. Weren't you paying attention—or are you going senile?" Duncan answered, rising from his chair.

"Respect your Elder, Highlander." Methos said wryly as he rose and followed him out of the office.

"I just got up—not exactly at my best. I'm awake now." Methos replied, a touch defensively.

"Sure. Right. Uh-huh." The younger Immortal said insolently. The Highlander answered the door, giving his friend and Watcher an affectionate clap on the back.

"Let me give you a hand with that, Joe." Duncan said, reaching for the silver case.

"Thanks, Mac. Any word?" the Watcher asked, his voice full of hope. The Highlander shook his head, his expression bleak.

Lounging in the kitchen doorway, Methos observed his friends. Joe was a little older, his step not as quick, but other than that, still the same, still exuding brash vitality.

"Bonjour, mon ami." He said quietly, a grin on his face as he moved forward to greet the Watcher.

Looking around at the sound of the familiar voice Joe's bearded face split into a wide grin when he spied the older Immortal. Duncan smiled as he placed Joe's case on the coffee table, before disappearing into the kitchen, leaving the two to catch up with one another. Picking up the phone in the kitchen, the Clansman placed a call.

"Hot damn—look what the cat drug in! Hey Old Man, how long you been here?" the Watcher exclaimed in delight.

"I arrived last night. Caught the afternoon flight over." Walking over to the mortal, Methos and Joe clasped hands before pulling each other into a gruff bear hug.

"What, you didn't take the jet?!" Joe asked disbelievingly.

"Adam can't afford the jet." Methos said calmly, enjoying their game.

"That's too bad. Oh well! Let me take a look at you —yep, you're still the same!" Chuckling at his bad joke, Joe made his way over to the sofa, easing himself down on the comfortable cushions.

"And you're still as ugly as ever." Methos rejoined easily, taking a seat in the recliner.

"That's not what the ladies say!" Joe shot back good-naturedly. Duncan reappeared with an ice-filled bucket of beer in hand.

"Aha!" With a triumphant grin, Methos retrieved a long neck, using his bare hands to pop the cap off his bottle of beer. The elder Immortal took a swig, relishing the way it slid smoothly down his throat. Walking over to Duncan's sound system, Methos browsed the menu, then pushed "play". The sound of Queen's 'We Are the Champions' filled the air. Duncan and Joe exchanged exasperated glances as the Highlander shrugged apologetically. With a sigh, Joe rolled his eyes, his delight unaffected.

"Glad you're here, Old Man; let's see what we got. Our friend here is chomping at the bit, eh? Can't say I blame him." Joe said, reaching for the case. Entering the combination, the lid sprang open, revealing a high tech notebook nestled within, and assorted accessories. Removing the notebook, at a touch, the computer quickly booted up, the password screen appeared.

"Where's your case, Old Man?" Joe asked Methos.

"I left it at home. Didn't think I needed it." He answered. "Besides, I had to give you something to do, right?" he teased the Watcher. Before they could continue, the doorbell rang again.

"Who else you expecting, Mac?" Joe asked, as he lowered the case lid.

"Not who, but what—lunch." Duncan replied as he pulled the door open.

The Scot reached into his pocket and pulled out several bills, accepting the pizzas from the delivery girl after paying for the pies. Placing them on the other end of the coffee table, he nodded his thanks to Methos as the older Immortal went to retrieve plates.

"What kind didja get, Mac?" Joe asked, inhaling the mouthwatering aroma. Methos returned, passing around the plates and napkins before sitting down.

"Ah, MacLeod, the bagel was merely an appetizer; sustenance arrives in it's purest form." The elder Immortal said, his appetite returning full force. The Watcher gave Methos a look of mock disgust.

"Puh-leeze! Just eat—you're going to make me lose my appetite." Joe complained, reaching for a box. Duncan smiled, amused. It was good to have his friends near; it made him feel less alone in his search for Jordan.

"Pepperoni, Hawaiian surprise and a combination. Put the notebook away, Joe; let's eat first." Duncan said.

"Hey, you don't have to tell me twice!" Joe replied, smiling.

The three men sat around eating pizza and knocking back suds, the conversation lighthearted as the bonds of friendship were renewed. Soon the pizza disappeared and the beer dwindled; shortly thereafter, they began to clear the coffee table. The easy, carefree mood changed, becoming grave as the trio tackled the business at hand. Opening the notebook, Joe accessed the database. The Watcher logo flashed on the monitor. Typing in Jordan's name, he clicked on 'Search'. The search engine instantly displayed the results, as a smaller window on the right side of the screen opened with the most current revolving three-dimensional image of their lost friend:

Query Results:

Name: Jordan Milagros Waters

Gender: Female

Date Born: June 19, 1924

Place Born: Manila, Philippines

Parents: Felisa Hsiao Waters

Garret Trent Waters

Height: 5' 4"

Weight: 125 Lbs.

Hair: Black

Eyes: Green

First Death: July 3, 1945; motor vehicle (jitney) accident. Body retrieved by Duncan MacLeod.

Recent Death: May 2003; assaulted outside Seacouver Medical Hospital, mortally stabbed.

Body retrieved by Duncan MacLeod, revived in his loft.

Weapon: Masamune Phoenix Head Katana given by Duncan MacLeod.

First Teacher: Duncan MacLeod

Quickenings: 5 Total

1973 Xiu Zhien China

1955 Thuy Nyguyen Thailand

1950 Maki Ami Japan

1949 Tedtaotao Saifun Guam

1948 Herrflung Ruther Japan

After reading the displayed results, Duncan let out a low whistle. "You guys are pretty thorough." he commented appreciatively. It never failed to amaze him that Watchers managed to follow Immortals thru the centuries, though 'stalked' seemed a better word. It was a bit unnerving, he thought.

"Well, we wouldn't be doing our jobs if we weren't, right Old Man?" Joe replied, peering at Methos over the screen. The elder Immortal merely smiled, his hand idly rubbing the Watcher tattoo on the inside of his left wrist.

"That's pretty good, but tell me something I don't know; is that all you have on her?" Duncan asked, a frown creasing his brow.

"These are the quick and dirty facts; other details can be accessed if you want." The Watcher said, waiting for Duncan's decision.

"Like what?" the Highlander prompted.

"The usual: occupations, likes/dislikes, favorites, lovers, you name it, encounters - we'll surely have something on it." Glancing at Methos, Joe noticed he had an odd expression on his face; in fact, he almost looked uncomfortable.

"You okay, Old Man?" he asked.

"I'm fine—and stop with the 'Old Man', would you?" Methos replied, a touch crossly. Raising an eyebrow, Joe couldn't resist the opportunity to needle his friend.

"Whoa—somebody feeling their age?" the Watcher teased. Eager to get his companions to refocus, Duncan spoke.

"What about a last entry?" the Highlander asked, increasingly glad by the minute that he Joe was there.

"Well, we can always check her Chronicles. Let's see what it comes up with." The Watcher said with a quick grin. After clicking on the 'more' button, a new window popped up to display the results.

Watcher: Bailey McDermott 1991- present

Vanessa Lansherre 1985-1991

Thuy Khomm 1948-1985

"Lets see what 'Micky D' has to say about the lady, eh Mac?" Joe said, his fingers busy on the keyboard; moving to sit next to his friend, the Highlander grunted his assent, his eyes glued to the screen. Methos also moved closer and sat perched on the arm of the recliner.

"Here's the entry dated 72 hours ago . . . that's when you last saw Jordie, right Mac? Several entries for that day; last one at ten that evening." Joe said, his eyes briefly flicking over to the Highlander.

"Yeah." The Immortal replied. Joe read the words on the screen aloud.

1400 Jordan exited MacLeod's loft wearing her usual attire, trench coat on. From the looks of her, I'd guess she and Duncan finished practicing. After taking her hair out of it's braid, she went into the convenience store where she apparently purchased sweets, one of which she eats. Its fortunate Immortals aren't prone to the usual banes suffered by mortals. The way she goes thru candy would make any dentist rich. Her most common purchases are Reese's peanut butter cups and Hershey Special Darks.

1430 From my vantage point, I see her on the sidewalk. Odd, there's no one else on the street; its empty; suddenly, I felt strange, I couldn't move, though I want to move closer to the window, I couldn't. My body felt so heavy. Thru my binoculars I saw her hair blow into her eyes as she looks around; seconds later, she was engulfed by a brilliant flash of light; when I am able to see again, she is gone. I've not seen her move that quickly ever, and am cursing myself. I scanned both directions with the zoom lens, but couldn't find her. To my knowledge, there are no other places she frequents in the area, other than MacLeod's loft and the convenience store. I waited until the evening and still didn't see her. Will wait to enter more.

2200 Later that same evening, MacLeod is alone in his loft. Still no sign of Jordan.'"

"What about the next day's entry?" Duncan asked, his tone eager; this was a start. Intuition told him there was something there that could possibly help them. Joe continued to type away; the information appeared on the screen. Scanning the short entry, the three males remained silent.

"Same thing, Mac. Nothing. Micky D still didn't lay eyes on the girl. Poor guy. Looks like you're not the only one tearing their hair out about this. Her Watcher isn't looking forward to logging how he lost his assignment. Can't say I blame the guy, either. Doesn't look good on your résumé."

"Well, we can rule out kidnapping—that's obviously a relief. Perhaps that flash of light might be something to consider." Methos commented, studying the Highlander's reaction. His friend remained silent, a sign that he was deep in thought.

"Unless it was a trick of light; sunlight bouncing off a car's windshield, reflecting on the window behind her—you know, that kind of thing." Joe speculated, scratching his beard thoughtfully.

"Does Jordie know her Watcher, Joe?" Duncan asked. Frowning, Joe shook his head.

"Highly unlikely; you and I are the exception, Mac. As well as the Old Man here. Our policy of not interfering hasn't changed. Did you ever tell her about the Watchers?" Duncan shook his head in denial.

"Not at all?" Joe pressed.

"No, Joe. Not a word, not a hint, nothing; as far as she knows, you and I are good friends, and you're a bar owner." The Highlander reassured him. The Watcher shrugged, satisfied, not doubting his friend's word. Duncan stood, pacing the apartment; the information provided a clue, yet he was unsure how to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

"Is there anything else you can think of, Mac?"

"Dammit, don't you think I've asked myself that a thousand times?" Duncan growled. Joe and Methos exchanged glances.

"I'm sorry . . . that was wrong of me; I shouldn't take my frustration out on you guys." Duncan said quietly, his dark eyes apologetic. He turned his eyes out towards the balcony, noting the position of the sun.

"Put the computer away, Joe. I'm going to fire up the grill." Putting action to word, the Highlander made his way to the kitchen, leaving his friends to their own devices; the sound of dishes clattering and drawers opening and closing filled the silence as Duncan moved around in his kitchen.

"What do you think, Joe?" Methos asked, wondering what the Watcher thought about the matter.

"Well, I'd say either Jordie went thru a hell of a lot of trouble to disappear, or we have a bona fide mystery on our hands. She trained with Mac, so I know she's at least halfway competent. Question is, _why_ is she gone? What do you think, Methos, what's your spin on the matter?" the Watcher replied, stymied.

"I can't say. It really is a mystery to me as well." The Immortal said quietly, reaching for the TV's remote control. Channel surfing, Methos finally switched the television off in disgust.

"Technology has come a long way, yet there's nothing on to watch." He complained to the Watcher.

"Quit your bellyaching and take a look at this." Joe said, motioning for the Immortal to join him. Keeping his voice down, he nodded towards the screen. As Methos read the screen, something flickered in his eyes briefly before disappearing.

"She's not a stranger to you. Does Mac know?" Joe asked quietly.

"What? That I'm actually more than merely acquainted with the lovely Jordan Waters?" the Immortal replied; the Watcher looked at him expectantly. Methos looked at Joe, stubbornly remaining silent. With a glare, Joe turned back to the screen, reading the rest of the entry.

"It was a long time ago; 1998 to be exact." Methos began. Joe stopped what he was doing, waiting for him to continue.

"She was in France, and so was I; we . . . spent some time together. That's all." Methos said quietly.

"Were you two involved?" Joe asked, not really expecting him to answer, unsure if he'd like the answer the Eldest would give. Methos was saved from replying as Duncan came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

"Did you find anything else out?" the Highlander asked Joe.

"I'm afraid not, MacLeod." Methos said smoothly; turning his back to Duncan, the Eldest shot the Watcher a warning glance. Closing the window, Joe smiled at his friend.

"Sorry, Mac . . .nothing else." The Watcher said apologetically.

With a sigh, the Highlander nodded, looking at the computer screen where the original query results were displayed. Joe shot Methos another glare; the elder Immortal's expression was one of pure innocence.

"Well, is anyone else hungry around here? I'm going to grill in about an hour." Duncan said.

The two other men readily agreed; the Scot went out to the balcony to prepare the grill before disappearing into his kitchen again. Joe returned to his computer; with a sigh, Methos walked out to the balcony. Joe's question stirred memories that Methos preferred to keep in the furthest recesses of recall. Leaning on the rail, the Ancient thought about Jordan, trying unsuccessfully to quell the rising regret.

"This a peace offering for losing it earlier, Mac?" Joe teased. True to his word, the Highlander grilled steaks and vegetables, serving both with a delectable rice pilaf.

"You could say that." Duncan replied, a sheepish expression on his rugged face. Picking up his glass of red wine, the Highlander swirled it around, inhaling briefly before taking a sip. The trio watched the sun set over the western sky in companionable silence. Feeling charitable, Methos began to gather the dishes; Joe stood to help when the older Immortal waved him down.

"Sit—you did the research, I've got this. I'll work for food, and will gladly sing for beer." Methos said.

"That won't be necessary, Old Man; I want my dinner to stay right where it is—in my stomach!" Joe said.

With a wry grin, Methos began to scrape leftovers into a bowl for the garbage disposal to deal with. Stacking their dirty plates, he quickly had the table cleared. Feeling industrious, Methos set to loading the dishwasher and the coffee maker to brew.

"Look at the Old Man—you'd think he'd been domesticated!" Joe quipped.

Duncan smiled automatically, his mind still on the information Joe provided. In the gathering darkness, the moon and stars shone softly in the night sky. Feeling something poke his chest, Duncan reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out the box Gregory gave Jordan. Frowning, he tried to remember how it got there; the last time the Highland saw it, it was on top of his dresser.

_Now you're losing it, MacLeod; can't even remember what you're doing anymore, can you?_

"Nice night; think we'll get a crescent moon, Mac?" Joe asked, staring at the night sky. When there was no reply, the Watcher repeated himself.

"Mac?" Glancing over at his friend, Joe noticed he was absorbed with the object he held in his hand.

"Whatcha got there, Mac?" he asked, curious.

"This is the box of a pendent Gregory gave to Jordan." Duncan answered absentmindedly. Searching his memory, Joe tried to place the face with a name; after a moment, it came to him.

"Gregory . . .he's your antique dealer friend, right? The one you introduced me to that morning?" Joe asked.

"Yeah." Duncan replied, not taking his eyes off the box.

"Can I see it?" Joe asked.

Wordlessly, Duncan handed it to the Watcher before turning to the woods. It was becoming automatic; since Jordan's disappearance, more often than not, the Scot would inevitably find himself staring out at the woods every night.

"Hmmm….never seen anything like it. What are the carvings on it?" Joe ran his fingertips gently over the surface of the box, admiring it.

"I don't know. I think they're mainly decorative." Duncan answered over his shoulder, his gaze turning back to the dark woods in the distance. He couldn't shake the feeling in his gut that he was close—very close to finding the answers he sought.

"Nice. What was inside again?" the Watcher asked, intrigued by the size and design of the box. It couldn't have held much.

"A pendant. A green leaf with a silver thread entwined around it. You should've seen it—she loved it. Jordie'd never been one for baubles. This one really brought her eyes out." Duncan's face softened with the pleasant memory. Overhead the stars shone a little brighter, as if in response to the Immortal's mood.

"Well, I'll be damned. Hey, Mac—check it out! You know it could do this?" Duncan turned at the wonder in Joe's voice. Holding the delicate item in the palm of his calloused hand, Joe held it out for Duncan to see; the runes glowed silver in the starlight.

"No, I didn't." he said softly. The Highlander continued to stare at the box; the feeling that he was one step closer to finding Jordan grew stronger.

"Wonder how it does that?" The Watcher said, thinking out loud.

"Methos! Come out here and turn the lights off." Duncan called. Complying with the Highlander's request, Methos joined him, a bottle of beer in hand.

"Why Duncan, this is all so sudden—after all this time, I had no idea . . .and in front of Joe, or is he going to join us?" Methos said sarcastically, chuckling at the Watcher's horrified expression.

"Very funny. Notice I'm not laughing." Duncan glared at his friend.

"Don't worry, Joe—the women of the world need me too much for me to consider finding solace in the arms of a man—especially that one!" The older Immortal reassured him.

Joe simply nodded, a doubtful expression on his face as he passed the box to him. Duncan watched silently as Methos examined it; turning it over in his hands, the older Immortal's fingers traced the gleaming silver runes, his expression thoughtful. Looking up at Duncan, Methos' face was inscrutable.

"Pretty little thing, isn't it?" Methos commented.

"Have you seen it before?" The Highlander asked.

"I've seen a lot of things over the centuries, Duncan." The Older Immortal answered, his voice carefully neutral.

"What do you know about it, Methos?" Duncan pressed his friend.

"This box? Can't place it. Sorry." Methos answered. The Highlander continued to press his friend for an answer, sensing there was more to the older Immortal's claims than he let on.

"Wait a minute—you're telling me you know nothing about this box? C'mon, Methos, level with me. Surely you know something, or someone who can help."

"Duncan, haven't we had this conversation before? I didn't become over five thousand years old by worrying about anyone else but me. If you care too much about someone, eventually you get burned."

"This isn't just anyone, Methos—it's Jordan we're talking about!" The Highlander snapped.

With a frustrated look directed at his friend, Duncan turned away. The Highlander needed to calm himself before he punched his friend from sheer frustration. Unruffled, Methos took swig of his beer, and observed the Clansman, his outward calm not betraying the thoughts in his mind. Rubbing his forehead, he closed his eyes. The Scot turned back to the elder Immortal.

"Is that all?" Duncan asked, incredulous.

"What do you want me to say, MacLeod?" The older Immortal asked.

"I don't know—anything but that. You're telling me in over 5,000 you've _never_ seen anything like this?!" Methos turned the box over in his hand, examining it again closely. After a moment, he handed it back to Duncan, ignoring the younger Immortal's comment. Tucking the box into his shirt pocket, the Highlander stared at Methos expectantly. Joe looked between the Immortals wondering what the answer would be.

"Do you believe in legend, Duncan?" the Highlander didn't reply. Leaning back against the rails, Duncan waited for him to continue.

"What does this have to do with Jordie?" Duncan asked, wondering where the conversation was going.

"Maybe everything…maybe nothing." Methos said. With a pointed look at the beer in the older Immortal's hand, Duncan continued to badger him.

"That's four beers you've had. Now pay up. Stop speaking in riddles. Either you know something or you don't. Which is it?"

"Our origins are shrouded in mystery, lost in the fog of time. We are living legends, and if we exist, think of the possibilities, MacLeod. Really think about it." Methos said. Joe listened the Immortals' exchange thoughtfully.

"You of all people should be open to that possibility. After all, you have the Sorcerer Nakano in you, and how many times has Connor been out of this dimension with Ramirez?" Methos asked, finding the bewildered, doubtful expression on the Highlander's face highly amusing.

"The Old Man may be on to something; y'know, Mac—maybe you ought a ask Gregory about the box. Maybe he'll be able to give you some answers, or at least point you in the right direction." The Watcher reasoned. Looking at his wristwatch, he was surprised to find it was later than he thought.

"Gotta go, Mac—It's my night to close the bar. Call me if you need more information; in the meantime, I'll nose around—see what I can find. 'Night, Methos." Methos waved good night as Joe made his way to the door with Duncan in tow.

"I'll walk you to your car, Joe. Methos—I'm going down, if I don't see you when I come back up, good night. Don't sleep too well, you're not off the hook" Throwing his hands up in mock surrender, the older Immortal nodded. Watching them exit, the Immortal waited for the door to shut before slowly making his way back to his room, deep in thought.

In his room, Methos' mind worked overtime. When Duncan handed him the box, he could scarcely contain his excitement. Though he was the oldest living Immortal, there were things in the world that were far older than him. He'd heard more than his share of legends; ironic since he himself was one. After he rode with the Horsemen, Methos' travels brought him to England, where, for a short time, he lent his sword arm to King Arthur. A smile crossed his good-looking face. The year of the Lord 410 A.D. was a good one, albeit filled with some rather . . . 'interesting' learning experiences. Laying in the bed, Methos stared up at the ceiling, thinking about Jordan, wondering if Duncan was aware of their . . . 'acquaintance'; obviously not, for Methos could only imagine the Highlander's reaction – if he knew. A faint smile appeared on his lips

"Jordan . . ." Methos said softly to himself.

The mere mention of her name brought feelings that were a mixture of regret, along with a faint feeling of anticipation. The Immortal remembered her lingering scent of sandalwood and strawberries, and the way she fit neatly in his arms. Yes, they definitely had to find Jordan Waters. The lady and he had unfinished business to tend to.


	12. Preparations

After her meeting with the Elf-Lord, Jordan felt much better than she had all morning. Fully expecting Lord Elrond to deny her petition, to the Immortal's surprise, the Elven Lord granted her request. By obtaining his permission to join the hunt, Jordan felt she'd won a major concession from the Ruler of Imladris, and rightly so. At his whim, Lord Elrond could easily restrict her movements in Rivendell and revoke any liberties Jordan currently enjoyed. Despite this success, all was not well with the Immortal. The woman hadn't slept well—ever since parting with Legolas after their walk in the woods. The concerted effort to resist her increasing desire to be with the golden Elf, and the uncertainty of returning to her own reality, left Jordan emotional drained.

_How did this happen?_ _Or more accurately, 'when' did this happen? I know I'm attracted to him, but when did it turn into this burning desire to be with him at all times? This can't be good . . . or normal. _

Jordan lost track of the many times when she was sorely tempted to seek Legolas out and explain her actions to the Elf—but the voice of reason always won in the end.

_We survive in secrecy . . ._ Duncan's words echoed in her mind during those moments of weakness.

It didn't, however, change the fact that Jordan missed Legolas' company, his kisses, and the way his hands lingered, as if it were the most natural thing to do. She just plain missed him. Thinking about the Elf, Jordan walked with no particular direction in mind. Her face took on a dreamy expression as she relived their last kiss, her mind replaying every detail, her memory supplying every sensation.

"Well, I guess that won't be happening any time soon . . . " Jordan muttered dejectedly to herself.

To add to her misery, she willingly volunteered (albeit reluctantly) to face the hideous Orc creatures again. In her heart, Jordan felt if she never saw another Orc again, it would be too soon. Stopping to rest under the wide canopy of a shade tree, Jordan laid on her back, looking up at the sky thru the verdant leaves. Running her hands lightly over the velvety carpet of grass, Jordan plucked a long blade, stroking her face with it as she thought about her meeting with the Elven Lord.

_It wouldn't do to have a guest get maimed or killed while under his care. I should be glad he didn't toss me out of Rivendell. It's his House, his Rules. There are worse things than being lectured by the Alpha-Elf. I'm here. For how long is anyone's guess. Maybe I'm supposed to do a good deed or something; a crystal ball would be handy right about now-this waiting is going to drive me nuts! _ Irritated, Jordan sat up, turning her face upward to the sky.

"Duncan, where are you?!" she bellowed up at the sky.

"Do you hear me, Highlander?!" fluffy, white cumulus clouds floated lazily in the fair sky overhead, unmindful of the perturbed woman below. Balling her hands into fists, she slammed them into the ground, succeeding only in bruising them.

"Owwww!" Jordan climbed to her feet, rubbing her sore hands.

_Great; that accomplished much. No use wasting the day—there's things to do, people to see, weapons to tend . . . _

Jordan's sensible side took over, mentally ticking off details that needed tending to before the hunt. A part of Jordan welcomed the challenge of pitting her skills against creatures that, up until now, existed only in fantasy novels and films. Passing Ceallach in the breezeway, Jordan asked the servant where Gimli could be found. To her surprise, the woman found she actually knew where the she-Elf was directing her. Making a quick trip to her quarters, Jordan grabbed her gear before setting out to find the Dwarf.

_Elves, Dwarves and Orcs—oh my! Maybe I'll write my own fantasy novel and become disgustingly rich . . . _ Jordan thought.

The more she considered the possibilities, the more she liked the thought; the only glitch being she had to find her way back home. Arriving at an open field flanked on three sides by towering trees, Jordan spied Gimli in the distance. Calling to him as she neared, the Dwarf raised an axe in greeting; taller than she expected, fiercer than she imagined, Jordan made a mental note to set the fairy tales straight when she returned home. Dressed in rough woolen breeches and a suede-like tunic, Gimli's coarse, red hair was clean, his abundant beard kept in order by braids; the Dwarf's stout feet were shod with sturdy boots, buffed to a dull shine. Gimli was busy practicing with his small throwing axes; as she neared, Jordan looked with interest at the various axes laid out on a table, as well as the Elf-friend's helm, as well as cleaning and sharpening supplies; placing her weapons on the table, Jordan set the sash near her Katana; carefully taking her shurikens out, they caught the sunlight, twinkling like fallen stars. Turning towards the Dwarf quietly observing her, she forced a bright smile on her face as she greeted him.

"Good morn, Gimli, I believe we were to compare weapons." Squinting up at her, he gave her an appraising glance, noting the shadows in her eyes.

"Are _you_ up to it, Lass?" The Dwarf asked, the kindness in his eyes tempering his stern words as he studied the woman before him.

"What, are you trying to back out?" She asked the Dwarf archly, a grin on her face. Gimli's brows knitted together as he gave a snort of indignation.

"Step up to the table, Lass, and show yer mettle." Gimli growled; despite his tone, his face was good-natured.

Jordan and Gimli spent the remainder of the day showing each other their weapons, and demonstrating their skills before trading arms. She found the Dwarf's axes heavy and unwieldy for her taste, but admired its brutal effectiveness. Though he would never say it, the Dwarf thought Jordan's weapons, albeit extraordinary and atypical in design, were flimsy, especially her Katana, which, to him –felt light as a feather; Jordan saw the Dwarf frown as he handled her sword.

"Different, isn't it?" she said. The Dwarf gave a noncommittal grunt.

"I'm sure it . . . serves a purpose." Gimli said, in a rare attempt to be tactful; he carefully placed it back on the table.

Looking around, Jordan searched for something suitable for what she had in mind. Gimli crossed his thick arms over his barrel-shaped chest, watching her in amusement.

"What are you up to, Lass?" he asked, curious.

"You'll see." Jordan said, her tone mysterious as she continued her search.

As the last resort, she tugged a ribbon free from her sleeve. Jordan picked up her sword and tossed the ribbon high in the air as she adjusted her grip on the Katana. They watched as the gossamer fabric fluttered lazily down; holding her sword with the cutting edge up, the delicate fabric separated into two pieces when it come into contact with the blade. Reaching for the ribbons, Gimli held it up, inspecting it. The ribbon was neatly cleaved in two; so clean was the cut that there was no evidence of fraying.

"It serves my purpose." Jordan said with a smile.

"Aye, that it does." The Dwarf grunted with grudging admiration.

"In days long gone, the sword smiths proved the great Katana's worth . . . "

Jordan intentionally let her words trail off; pausing dramatically, she looked at the Dwarf as she returned the Katana to its scabbard, sliding it in smoothly and quietly, without so much as a whisper of the metal.

" . . . By it's ability to cut a slave's body in half with a single stroke." Jordan said.

Gimli regarded the unusual sword with a newfound sense of respect, watching the way she handled it with something akin to reverence. In his long life, Gimli could not remember seeing a woman fight the way Jordan does, not even the Shield-Maiden of Rohan, the Lady Éowyn. Jordan winked at the Dwarf before returning her attention to the axes. As the woman studied the geometrical designs on the Dwarf's axe head, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gimli hold up a shuriken, the star flashing in the sunlight. Curious, he exerted gentle pressure, testing its strength, and then pressed harder when it refused to bend beneath his fingers. It was stronger than it looked.

_Just like it's owner_ the Dwarf thought to himself.

Turning it, Gimli studied it from different angles. Using his index finger to lightly touch one point of the star, the metal sank into his finger tip as easily as a hot knife thru butter; the Dwarf sucked his breath in in surprise, slicing a calloused finger tip open on it's razor-sharp edge, the pain registering in his brain shortly thereafter.

"Careful Gimli! It's sharp-!" she called.

Jordan was about to caution the Dwarf when she heard his startled intake of breath; her warning came too late Dropping the shuriken, Gimli watched in wonder as blood oozed from the cut, still not quite believing he'd received hurt from such a small and seemingly innocent object. Waving her aside, the Dwarf wiped his finger on the hem of his tunic; it continued to bleed.

"It was deliberate! I but meant to trim a callous and went a wee bit deep. I'm fine, Lass!" Gimli said as he hurriedly placed the bleeding digit in his mouth.

"Oh, Gimli—I'm sorry! I should've said something earlier." Jordan belatedly apologized, upset that she hadn't warned the Dwarf sooner.

Jordan spent many nights (and a good portion of it) sharpening her weapons, throwing herself into the familiar and comforting task—it helped take her mind off her unusual circumstances, resulting in extra-sharp edges on her weapons. Jordan quickly went to Gimli. Prying the finger from the Dwarf's mouth, she examined it. Just as she thought—despite the Dwarf's tough, calloused skin, the shuriken had sliced deeply; fortunately it was a clean cut, and Gimli's hands weren't too dirty. Unfortunately, it was located on the very tip of his finger—a tender spot, and subject to much use and pressure, which would cause it bleed freely until healed. Instructing the Dwarf to hold his freely bleeding finger above chest level, Gimli watched in amusement and a certain amount of interest as Jordan took another a shuriken from the table and lifted her gown, slicing a strip of cloth from the hem of her chemise. Placing a wad of the cloth on his finger, Jordan applied pressure on the cut to stem the bleeding. Wrapping the remaining fabric around it, Jordan tied it with a fine knot, making a crude band-aid.

"You're lucky the star's clean, Gimli, otherwise I'd have to give you a tetanus shot!" Jordan teased the Dwarf.

"Lass, nobody shoots a Dwarf and lives to tell about it!" Gimli sputtered indignantly; his brows drew so close together it appeared as one bushy brow. Laughing 'till her side hurt, Jordan laughed harder at the Dwarf's fierce expression.

"It's not what you think; a tetanus shot is, well, never mind—you'll be fine." Jordan said, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes.

With a playful grin, Jordan kissed his fingertip, laughing again as the Dwarf turned beet red; Gimli quickly snatched his finger back, muttering beneath his breath. Despite his chagrin at cutting his finger on a bit of (extraordinarily sharp) tin, the Dwarf enjoyed the fuss Jordan made over it. The odd woman was a breath of fresh air, delighting him to no end—especially since the pointy-eared Princeling is so affected by her, losing his composure in her presence. Wound tended, Jordan turned her attention back to their practice.

"Look." She said.

Gathering five shurikens, Jordan eyed the target before her, glad there was no wind, as it could potentially altar her stars' course. Concentrating, she drew back her arm and threw the stars in rapid succession at a target placed fifty paces away, where they landed dead center in a perfect pentagon. With a whoop of victory, Jordan turned to the Dwarf.

"What do you think about that?" she asked smugly, pleased with herself.

Gimli grunted, suitably impressed, as the sound of an arrow whizzed thru the air. Taking a deep breath, Jordan attempted to steady her jangling nerves; the arrow landed with a thud in the center of her pentagon and a slight increase in the Buzz simultaneously alerted her to his arrival. Turning, the woman and the Dwarf watched Legolas make his way toward them from fifty paces away, a small smile on his handsome face.

_Poetry in motion _ Jordan couldn't help but think to herself.

The look the Elf gave Jordan made her pulse quicken. It had been five days since she'd seen him; five days of pure misery without him, reliving the feel of Legolas' touch, imagining his kisses, and seeing him across the room, so close yet so far away. Remembering her vow, Jordan reluctantly looked away, studiously rearranging the weapons. Legolas' smile faltered before it died, his perfect features settled once again into its usual serene expression.

"Ah, the pointy-ear arrives. Why doesn't that surprise me?" Gimli muttered; despite his words, the affection in his voice was plain.

The tables were turned, they were. It amused the Dwarf greatly to see the Elf seek out the woman at every chance possible. Through all their travels, Legolas always caused the female heads to turn—human and Elf-kind alike, some maidens going to great lengths to display their feminine charms, yet Legolas, never gave them more than a passing glance, always treating them with the utmost courtesy. The Elf skillfully extricated himself from undesired female attention in a way that left the aforementioned feeling it was their doing. As their wanderings came to a close, the Dwarf sensed the growing restlessness in the Elf. The Dwarf liked to believe he knew the Elf as well as any Dwarf could hope to understand an Elf—given their extraordinary friendship. Thinking back, Gimli was certain the restlessness set in motion after the valiant Elf caught his first glimpse of the sea from the White City. Not long after, the Lady Jordan literally appeared.

To see Legolas so besotted with Jordan was a source of joy and concern for Gimli. It appeared she and the Elf forged a relationship of sorts, when just as suddenly, it ended. Not overly romantic by nature, the Dwarf remained silent on the matter, watching the events unfold; however, as the situation between Jordan and Legolas continued in its present state, he was genuinely puzzled; when Gimli casually broached the subject with his friend, the Elf refused to discuss it, saying nothing more of the matter other than 'Jordan would return.'

It didn't bother Gimli; Legolas will certainly not lack for female companionship, the son of Glóin knew the pointy ear will share his thoughts when ready, and only then. As for Jordan, the woman took to hiding herself away in the House of Healing, or would suddenly remember a task or errand that bore her away in the opposite direction from the Elf and the Dwarf. Gimli's brows drew together as a thought came to him.

_Should she find her way back 'home', what will become of the pointy-ear? _ His musing was interrupted at Legolas' words.

"Quel re (good day). Comparing skills, are we?" Legolas said. Nodding to Jordan in greeting, he stopped before his friend.

"Is your finger all right?" the Wood Elf asked his friend; Gimli muttered something unintelligible to Jordan's ears. The Elf however, smiled widely and chuckled before turning his attention back to the woman.

"Seems like the right thing to do before we leave." Jordan said.

"Leave?" Legolas frowned. "Manke naa _lye_ autien (Where are '_we_' going)?"

"There is a hunting party, and I'm invited." She said lightly, pleased she actually understood what the Elf said—practicing with the Head Healer definitely paid off, even if it mainly consisted of common key phrases and short sentences. The Dwarf and Elf simply looked at her, twin blank expressions on their faces. With an exasperated sigh, Jordan clarified herself.

"Orcs." Jordan said, looking at Legolas, waiting for his reaction. The Elf glanced at Gimli, seeking confirmation; the Dwarf merely raised a bushy eyebrow, silently watching the exchange between his companions as he rested his hands atop his great war axe.

"By whose direction?" The look of concern on Legolas' face didn't go unnoticed by Jordan.

"Lord Elrond himself" she said quietly, watching the expression on Legolas' face darken. Gimli discretely busied himself with his helm, polishing it industriously with a cloth as the woman and Elf talked. Coming to stand in front of her, Legolas felt his stomach lurch in warning.

"Jordan—this is not a game, it is dangerous; I fear for your safety. The Orcs you battled when we found you are fierce. When we hunt, there may be Uruk-hai, or a Berserker in their numbers as well. They are larger, faster and stronger—their sole purpose is but to kill." Unable to help himself, Legolas raised a hand to caress her cheek.

Jordan shored her determination, stepping away from the Elf before he could touch her, hating herself when she saw the hurt in the Elf's eyes; Legolas dropped his hand to his side, his lips pressed together briefly in anger and frustration, bright gaze darkening slightly. Just as quickly, it was gone.

"Thank you for your concern, but I'll be fine. This time we'll be fighting together instead of you

two rescuing me, right? Legolas, I _need_ to do this. " Jordan looked at him, her chin lifted in defiance, as if daring him to try and stop her.

"Is there no way to make you reconsider?" the Wood Elf asked.

Legolas' blue eyes pleaded with her to reconsider. Feeling the need justify her competence for the second time that morning had the Immortal fuming. Noting the stubborn set of the woman's jaw and the determination in Jordan's face made the Elf feel frustration—something he hadn't felt in ages.

_I do not remember a female giving me this much trouble _ the Elf thought to himself, bewildered..

"Jordan, you could get hurt or even killed —I will not allow this!"

"Its not your decision to make. I'm going" Jordan said, voce sotto.

"I cannot abide the thought of harm coming to you." Changing tactics, the Elf tried cajoling her with his honeyed tone.

"That's sweet, Legolas, but I'm a big girl—I'll be fine; I'm not a stranger to war. I only ask . . . if anything should happen, don't let them cut my head off and mount it on a pike, please?" Jordan replied.

"As you wish." Legolas said curtly, not knowing what to make of her odd words, the Elf decided to consider the matter a stalemate.

_How do I make you see reason before its too late?_ the Elf thought to himself.

In the time remaining before the hunt, Legolas hoped to make her see reason. _how_ remained to be seen. The Elf's bright blue eyes were troubled, but he gave no further protests; instead, Legolas nodded, studying Jordan's face, searching for an answer to his unspoken question before turning to inspect the weapons laid out on the table. Apprehensive at first, Jordan was prepared to go another verbal round with the Elf, but was thankful Legolas did not pursue the matter further; in fact, his attitude was courteous and businesslike as he maintained his distance. Jordan followed his lead, her heart heavy, aching for his touch.

'_Keep your distance' - you got what you wanted. Why does it feel wrong? _

Gimli looked between the two; he knew the Elf well enough to see the hurt flash across his features when Jordan stepped away from him. The woman herself did not appear sincere in her desire to be apart. Suspecting the reason for Jordan's actions, Gimli kept his opinion to himself, his perceptive eyes taking in all the minute details, as he quietly continued to observe the pair.

Strangely disappointed Legolas did not insist Jordan stay in Rivendell, the Immortal missed the brief, calculating looks the Dwarf occasionally cast her way while the trio inspected their weapons. As they prepared their gear, Jordan was careful to keep Gimli between her and the Elf, a gesture not lost on either male as they gave Jordan pointers on how to bring down Orcs, Berserkers and Uruk-hai, and the differences between the fell creatures. Taking out his long handled white knives, Legolas gave Jordan a brief demonstration of its use. She admired the way he moved—gracefully, effortlessly. The Elf's economy of effort was innate, efficient, and judging by his arrow's placement, his aim left no doubt to its lethal accuracy. Legolas certainly was the personification of his skills: beautiful, sure and deadly. Bored, the Dwarf watched the Elf show off, when suddenly, inspiration struck.

"Legolas—Jordan's sticks are similar to your knives; perhaps the two of you could spar, see what the other has to offer."

_And work out this tension betwixt you._ Gimli added silently.

With an enigmatic glance at the Dwarf, Legolas sheathed his knives, then looked at Jordan to see her answer. Leaping at the chance to learn from the Elf, Jordan nodded her assent. With a shrug and a graceful sweep of his hand, Legolas indicated for her to precede him as they left the weapons table, walking to the open training field. Grasping her sticks in her hands, Jordan wished she wore pants.

Facing the Elf, Jordan assumed a fighting stance: her legs shoulder width apart, hips turned just so, arms raised to chest level. Her hands held the sticks perpendicular, one to block, the other to stab. It was hard to concentrate with the handsome Elf standing before her. Quicker than thought, Legolas reached behind his back and whipped his white knives out with a flourish, mirroring Jordan, the movement too fast for the eye to follow. Jordan swallowed hard.

_Great—what'd I get myself into?! _ she thought for the second time in the day with a sinking feeling.

The handsome Elf arched an eyebrow at her in an unmistakable challenge. Taking a deep breath, Jordan gripped her sticks more firmly as she struck first, testing the Elf's strength and speed; Legolas' eyes never left hers, his knives and her sticks clacked together, one-two-three-four, hitting high, low, center. Gimli leaned against the table; as he watched the two trade blows, the Dwarf congratulated himself on the stroke of pure genius.

_It takes a Dwarf to set things aright! _ He thought to himself with great satisfaction.

Pulling his pipe from its holder on his belt, Gimli took a pinch of pipe weed from a pouch on his waist and settled down to enjoy the show. Feinting, testing, the woman and the Elf fell into a rhythm, striking and blocking in a figure eight pattern; concentrating on countering the Elf's moves, Jordan didn't notice how or when she and Legolas moved across the open field, their feet carrying them several times so close to Gimli, causing the Dwarf to duck, forced to dodge out of the way or be struck by a stick, knife or elbow.

Despite her clothing, Jordan was able to keep her feet—just barely; moving back or pressing her advantage when the opportunity arose, she was under no illusion and knew the Elf was not exerting his full effort; the gesture both touched and irritated her. Legolas, on the other hand, was pleased to discover that the woman was adept in the use of her weapons; it allayed some of the fears he felt upon learning Jordan would accompany the hunting party.

At any moment, the Mirkwood Prince could easily disarm Jordan, yet Legolas held back; enjoying the simple physical exercise that provided an outlet for some of the frustration he felt at Jordan's obvious avoidance of him, and her refusal to remain behind; versed in the art of weaponry as Jordan was, she certainly is no match for Legolas' skill and prowess. An appraising look at the woman was enough for the Elf to end their sparring session. With a final, jarring strike to Jordan's sticks—which she narrowly blocked, Legolas sheathed his knives with the same flourish with which he whipped them out, before stepping back from her. It took a moment for Jordan to realize they were finished—her right hand was finishing it's back hand swipe to the Elf's head when Legolas casually reached up and gently but firmly grasped her wrist, her stick less than an inch away from his face-which looked as fresh as if he'd just arrived from his quarters.

Not a single strand of his hair out of place; Jordan, on the other hand, did not fare so well. Her forehead was covered in perspiration, and a big, fat drop of sweat trickled down her temple. Her hair, previously worn loose, was now in wild disarray about her head, a stray lock of which fell across her eyes. Her nostrils flaring, Jordan was panting from their exertions. His blue eyes still fixed onto hers, Legolas inclined his head slightly with a crooked grin on his face.

"Lle ume quell (you did well), Jordan." The Elf said, brushing the errant lock of hair from her eyes with his free hand; his touch was feather light.

"Thank you." she managed to answer, trying to not sound so out of breath.

It didn't help that Legolas' thumb was deliberately caressing her wrist—right over her hammering pulse. The movement caused goose bumps to rise up her arm, as well as accelerate her already racing heart rate. As if reading her mind, the Elf's thumb deliberately lingered over her pulse point as he searched her face. Unnerved by his steady gaze, Jordan closed her eyes as she averted her face. After a moment, the Elf gently released her hand, stepping away from her as he returned to the weapons table. Unsure of what just passed between them, Jordan took the opportunity to quickly blot the perspiration from her forehead and face with her sleeves, before raking her fingers thru her hair in an attempt to put it back in some semblance of order before she rejoined her companions. The setting sun signaled the end of the day; as Legolas and Gimli put the final sharpening touches on their bladed weapons, Jordan went to gather her shurikens. Drawing close to the target, upon closer inspection, she was astonished to see in the middle of her pentagon, Legolas shot not one, but two arrows, the second splitting the first perfectly in half.

A/N:

Mythbusters may prove the splitting of an arrow by another is impossible; I humbly submit if Legolas, Master Bowman he is, is ". . . _lithe, immensely strong, able swiftly to draw a great war-bow and shoot down a Nazgûl, endowed with the tremendous vitality of Elvish bodies, so hard and resistant to hurt that he went only in light shoes over rock or through snow, the most tireless of all the Fellowship._—J.R.R. Tolkien on Legolas (_Book of Lost Tales 2_, pg. 333)", I'm willing to suspend my disbelief and deem him capable of splitting an arrow.


	13. A Final Attempt

Parting company with the Dwarf and the Elf, Jordan stopped by the House of Healing. After a quick visit with Læurenthail, whose knowing looks Jordan doggedly ignored, the Immortal went to assist Ciërce, the remaining Apprentice, who was busy extracting essential oils from a pile of fresh herbs. Pausing in the doorway, Jordan inhaled deeply, enjoying the soothing scents; her weariness faded as she entered the room. Carefully setting her weapons down on a small table, the Immortal pulled up a stool and joined the Apprentice at the worktable. Jordan watched, fascinated, as the Elf performed the painstaking process. The Apprentice smiled at her, his clear, grey eyes followed her gaze.

"What's that?" Jordan asked, looking dubiously at a weed the Elf set aside.

"Asëa aranion; also known as Kingsfoil, or Athelas." Ciërce answered as he continued working.

"What will you do with this?" Jordan inquired, curious. She picked up the discarded plant; cautiously sniffing its long leaves, her eyes widened—it smelled surprisingly sweet; the nondescript weed's crushed leaves were the source of the pungent, refreshing fragrance.

"Mmmmmm . . . May I have this?" she asked the Elf. Ciërce smiled at the Immortal; her face wore such an eager, hopeful expression, he couldn't refuse her simple request.

"Of course. And what will you do with it?" the Apprentice asked, wondering what use she had in mind for the unassuming plant. The Elf paused in his task, watching as Jordan slid off the high stool.

"Oh, I think I'll put it under my pillow . . . maybe it'll bring pleasant dreams." Jordan said, with a twinkle in her eye.

_Of Legolas _

Cradling the crushed plant, Jordan rummaged in a woven basket for a square of linen; soaking it in cold water, the Immortal wrung out the excess before gently tucking her prize into the linen and placed it next to her weapons.

"In that case, you're welcome to take another one." Ciërce said, smiling at Jordan's surprise.

"Oh, thank you! You're a doll!" the Immortal said, pleased. The figure of speech was lost on the Elf, but he took it to mean a positive thing.

_This daughter of Man is easy to please!_ Ciërce thought to himself; he watched the woman carefully pore over the remaining plants before selecting one to her liking. Holding it tenderly, Jordan placed it with its crushed companion.

"This one I'm going to keep in my room; hopefully I can get it to grow roots . . . I'm going to take it home with me." The Immortal said quietly. The Elf nodded; he understood. Looking at the remaining pile of Athelas, Ciërce continued with his explanation.

"Aside from it's healing properties, Athelas' virtue is multifold: to clear the mind, invigorate the disposition and lighten the heart of not only the one afflicted, but all present. After the essence is removed, the plant will be dried; it may then be used as a tea, or steeped in an infusion—alone or with other herbs—or it may also be ground and put into a poultice; some even cook with it, though it is not one of its more common uses; most Men do not consider it a useful plant, but there are a few who know of it's virtues." the Apprentice explained.

"What a great way to use everything. Nothing goes to waste—I like that!" Jordan said.

"Is that not how healing is practiced in your . . . land?" Ciërce asked, puzzled. Jordan thought carefully before answering.

"Well," she began slowly, "Its not the standard anymore. Before, the bulk of our medicines were derived from natural plant resources; now we're turning more and more to bioengineering as our original sources become depleted."

"Your land sounds strange." Ciërce said while continuing his task.

"Trust me, it can be strange." Jordan said with a laugh.

The Immortal worked alongside the Apprentice, until—after two hours had passed, the Elf insisted that Jordan retire for the night. Ciërce watched her leave, his puzzlement growing with each passing moment; the woman was a sight, indeed; usually neatly groomed, tonight Jordan's long raven hair was mussed, the ends tangled, looking as if she'd been caught in a wind storm; one sleeve was missing a ribbon, and there were several dark, oily spots on her gown. Shaking his head, Ciërce chuckled quietly to himself as he watched her disappear into the shadows. Jordan looked forward to a quiet evening alone as she slowly trudged back to her quarters, at least until a servant met her on the pathway and informed the Immortal she was expected to dine with Lord Elrond and the rest of the hunting party.

"When and where?" she asked the Elf.

"Within the hour in the main hall, Lady Waters." The servant said. Jordan nodded her acceptance, resigned to the fact that her quiet evening was no more.

"Thank you. I'll be there." The woman said. The servant nodded once before melting silently into the shadows.

Jordan continued towards her quarters. After filling a golden chalice with cool water, Jordan gently placed the Athelas in it; burying her nose in the plant's long leaves, inhaling its calming fragrance, Jordan grabbed her toiletries and robe on her way to the bathing chamber. After a thorough wash, the Immortal stood before the mirror—dried, dressed and ready.

"You can do this!" The Immortal told her reflection.

Giving her tresses a final stroke with the hairbrush, Jordan tossed her hair back and squared her shoulders. Walking at a sedate pace, Jordan arrived in time to be seated with the rest of the attendants; she was led to the empty seat next to Gimli. The Dwarf sat on her immediate left, three seats away from the Lord of Rivendell; given the Dwarf's proximity to Lord Elrond, it was considered a high honor for the Elf-friend. Jordan understood friendships between Dwarves and Elves were extremely rare –especially the unusual friendship that was as deep and lasting as that shared by Legolas and Gimli.

Gimli looked up at the Immortal, greeting Jordan with a grunt before turning back to his tankard of ale. She smiled, knowing that nothing, or for that matter, no one—with their senses intact, comes between a Dwarf and his drink. Jordan looked up, only to meet Legolas' gaze; she offered him a brief smile before tearing her gaze away to accept a goblet of Miruvor from a servant. The cordial possessed wonderful qualities that Jordan was only just beginning to appreciate.

When Jordan looked back, the golden Archer was conversing with the Elf to his right. It was difficult to not notice the fair Prince among the gathering of darker haired Elves; not only was his pale hair a beacon of light among the brunettes, but there was . . . something about the son of Thranduil that set him apart from the other Elves; something indescribable, but tangible nonetheless. As she pondered Legolas' effortless ability to dominate her thoughts, Jordan's eyes happened to rest on the Dwarf's hand; she noticed Gimli's finger had been freshly bandaged.

"How's the finger, Gimli?" the Immortal whispered.

"This wee scratch? Phagh!" the Dwarf whispered loudly back. Despite his bluster, Jordan saw Gimli was careful to not use his injured finger unnecessarily.

In a lower tone the Dwarf confessed, "It pains me a bit. The Apprentice said you'd just departed when he changed the bandage. He wasn't as fine to look at. I was glad to be done with it." Gimli said, nodding sagely as if it were the wisest thing he'd ever done.

Jordan laughed at that; fully aware that the Elves' beauty, even the males, surpassed those of the other races, the Immortal was pleased by the Dwarf's compliment. Discretely studying her dinner companions, Jordan again thought it a shame the varied interpretations of Elves back home were hideous caricatures in comparison to the reality. The best way to hide in plain sight was to keep still and silent; Jordan did her best to not fidget in her chair. Her singular female presence, other than that of servants, caused more than a few curious—and many blatantly disapproving glances to be cast in her direction, all of which Jordan stoically ignored. Jordan watched as servants bore great platters of foods, deftly arranging them on the table before leaving to fetch more, until at last the table was laden with a bountiful spread. As the woman suspected, it was a working dinner. The conversation among the present company focused mainly on their weapons and strategies.

Unfamiliar with Rivendell and its outlying area's topographical layout, the discussion didn't hold much interest for the Immortal. Because of the seating arrangement, Jordan enjoyed an unobstructed view of Legolas, who sat across the table and two seats away to her left, closer to Lord Elrond, as befitted his royal status. Occasionally, she would look up to find Legolas' eyes upon her, an unreadable expression on his face. Coloring slightly, Jordan lowered her head, pretending to eat; the Elf was much too distracting for her to concentrate on her meal. Looking down at her plate, Jordan pushed the food around, her appetite diminished. The musical chatter of the Elves faded to the back of Jordan's mind as her thoughts turned inward.

_Look but don't touch, Jordie._

From his great chair on the raised dais, Elrond Half Elven addressed the company at large; Jordan gazed at Legolas' profile, feasting her eyes on him. Sensing her close scrutiny, Legolas turned; his eyes met hers, his gaze steady; she pretended to look at a point just beyond the Elf; Jordan hoped Legolas would believe the ruse, yet the woman hadn't counted on the heightened color in her cheeks giving her away. Picking at her food, eating little, and sipping her Miruvor, Jordan went thru the motions of enjoying herself. Listening to the snatches of conversation surrounding her, occasionally, when asked, the Immortal would comment quietly. After putting in what she hoped was an acceptable amount of face time, Jordan intended to salvage part of her plan for some quiet time to herself. When the opportunity arose, she excused herself.

Bidding goodnight to her host and those seated close to her, the Immortal insisted Legolas stay when he stood to escort her back to the room. On sudden impulse, Jordan gave the Dwarf an affectionate kiss on the cheek and a squeeze on the shoulder before she left; Gimli turned red, but sat straighter in his chair, a pleased expression softening his ruddy features. Legolas watched her leave until she was out of sight, his eyes drawn to the unconsciously provocative sway of her hips. Between the remaining meal courses, the golden Elf stood and took the seat recently vacated by Jordan. Legolas turned to the Dwarf, clearly troubled. Every fiber in his being warned him she should not accompany them, but he also knew it was useless to dissuade her.

"Gimli, Amin dele ten' he (I'm worried about her); I do not think it wise that she come with us." Legolas said. The concern on the Elf's face was plain.

"N'dela (don't worry) Lad, ye know she can take care of herself. Remember, when we found her, she was holding her own."

"It's not the Orcs that worries me; it's the Uruk-hai. She has not fought one." The Elf said, keeping his voice low.

"Well, 'tis good that she'll have us looking after her then. And there are more Elves to help.

Legolas, tula, vasa ar' yulna eni'mereth (Come, eat and drink of the feast), for soon, we hunt." The Dwarf said, trying to allay his friend's fears.

Reluctantly, the Elf lifted his goblet in a toast with the Dwarf, but did not drink. Biding his time, Legolas waited until everyone was freely drinking of the miruvor and ale before excusing himself. Gripping the Dwarf's shoulder, no words needed to be said as he took his leave.

"Ye canna change her mind, Lad." Gimli declared; despite his gruff words, understanding shone in the Dwarf's eyes. The Elf stood to leave.

"I must try, Mellonamin (my friend)." Legolas said before walking away.

"Quel marth (good luck)." The Dwarf muttered with a snort; lifting his tankard in a salute, he watched the retreating figure disappear into the shadows.

Seacouver, Washington

2 weeks later

Yet another day was spent searching for clues and leads; despite MacLeod's attempts, as usual, they came up empty handed.

"We're going nowhere real fast." Methos said to himself.

Still, he had to admire the Highlander's tenacity. He would get far in the Game; whatever cause Duncan would champion, he certainly put forth nothing less than his best effort. The late afternoon found the two Immortals outside Jordan's apartment. Methos leaned against the wall, waiting for the big Scot to open the door with his key.

"Having problems MacLeod?" the elder Immortal inquired. Duncan grunted, jiggling the key in the lock.

"It always sticks. I've told her repeatedly to get this damn lock changed. " The Highlander growled.

"Don't force it—you might break the key in the lock." Methos advised.

Duncan stopped long enough to give his friend a malevolent look; Methos threw his hands up in surrender. Extracting the key from the lock, Duncan held it up to the light, examining it closely. The Highlander took a deep breath before reinserting the key. Keeping his sigh to himself, the Ancient One nodded politely to the sexy red head that was devouring him with her blue eyes, as she waited for the elevator.

"Do I need to call security?" She asked; her voice was pitched low, yet it carried.

"Only if you've a problem I can't help you with. Do you require any . . . assistance?" Methos asked as he sauntered towards the woman.

Leaning against the wall, he studied the willowy redhead, liking what he saw. Apparently the feeling was mutual, for she tossed her flame red hair back, her well-endowed bosom jutting out with the movement. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Methos saw Duncan gained entry and disappeared into the apartment.

"That depends. What 'assistance' do you offer?" Red asked. The Ancient One chuckled. He decided to see what she knew.

"Do you know my . . . friend, Miss-?" Methos asked the redhead.

"Call me Kimberly, handsome. And yes, I know Jordan. She hasn't been home for almost two weeks now. I believe she is on holiday." She said. The elevator doors slid open. Waiting for the passengers to exit, Jordan's neighbor ran a finger down Methos' overcoat lapel.

"You can call me Adam." Methos said, enjoying this unexpected diversion. Running the tip of her tongue over her even, white teeth, Kimberly gave the Immortal a thorough once-over before stepping into the lift.

"If she's with you, then she's a lucky girl." Kimberly let the question hang in the air, fishing for information, Methos merely smiled.

"Apartment 42. Drop by anytime . . . Adam." Kimberly purred as the doors slid shut. With a grin, Methos went to join the Highlander.

Standing in the modest living room of Jordan's apartment, Methos stood still, getting a feel for the place. You could learn a lot about a person by what they surrounded themselves with. Duncan had disappeared into what the elder Immortal presumed was her bedroom; reluctant to follow the Highlander, Methos wandered into the remarkably large second bedroom of Jordan's apartment; it was filled with mementos of her travels: a dozen fragile lace fans, a Japanese kimono, complete with obi and geta sandals, Chinese porcelain vases, seashells and dried sea sponges and coral. Several large, carved mahogany chests were scattered about the room. Lifting the lid to a medium sized chest, it was filled with colorful, traditional Chinese women's dresses, the material gleaming as only pure silk can; Methos smiled, remembering . . .

_:::: Paris, France_

_ The Britannique_

_ After introducing himself to the young Immortal who called herself Jordan Waters, Methos hadn't planned on pursuing the acquaintance. Chalk it up to boredom, or a sense of curiosity; after a year of self-imposed exile with the twin demons grief and anger, the Ancient One realized that he was ready for a change. Perhaps it was his desire for company—any company-that prompted him to ask Jordan out to dinner. Sharing a meal with a lovely Immortal seemed like a much better alternative than another evening alone. _

_Methos couldn't tell what surprised him more—when the words left his mouth, or when _

_Jordan cautiously accepted. After agreeing upon the time and place, Methos found himself standing in the lounge of the decidedly British hotel nestled in the heart of Paris. Glancing at his wristwatch, Miss Waters' tardiness didn't bother him; the reservations he made guaranteed their seats. The Immortal sat in the common lounge awaiting his dinner date. _

_ The older Immortal had just settled himself on the overstuffed horsehair sofa when the Buzz grew stronger, announcing the arrival of the lady of the evening. Jordan was dressed in the palest of jade green; the shimmering cheongsam material of the Qi Pao styled dress stopped just shy of her ankles; below the Mandarin collar, delicate pink blossoms anchored by golden vines sprawled across the elegant front of her bodice and trailed down mid-knee. As she walked, the high side slits revealed tantalizing glimpses of smooth, bare skin. The Ancient One couldn't help but wonder where she hid her sword as his eyes traveled up. _

_Bangs and wispy tendrils of hair famed her pretty face, and her eyes . . . green eyes on a _

_woman was nothing new to Methos, but on Jordan, it was startling—more so when he discovered it was her natural eye color—and not achieved by colored contact lenses; Jordan's long, black hair was drawn up and back in a thick bun secured by two long ivory chopsticks. Smiling nervously, Jordan flicked an imaginary speck of dust from her skirt. Methos rose to his feet._

"_You look very nice." He murmured with an appreciative gleam in his eye. _

"_Thank you. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting." She said, looking slightly worried._

"_Not a problem; the boat doesn't leave until 7:00 p.m." Methos took the matching cape from her hands, draping it over her shoulders; it settled into place with a whisper. _

"_Boat?" Jordan echoed uncertainly._

"_The boat." Methos said, smiling at the apprehension in her voice. She smelled of sandalwood and strawberries. The Ancient One gently turned her around so she was facing him. His dark eyes searched her face._

_ "I hope you like French food." He said softly._

_ "I guess I'll find out. I was hoping for Chinese—I brought my own utensils." Jordan answered with a smile. Methos laughed, enjoying her odd sense of humor. _

"_In that case—shall we go?" Holding his arm out to her, Jordan took it with a smile. ::::_

Methos gently lowered the lid of the mahogany chest. Jordan had been impressed, and that night was the beginning of many nights and days together. Shaking himself out of the reverie, the Immortal continued his prowl around the room, inspecting its contents.

On a curio cabinet shelf was a wooden blowgun measuring three feet in length; picking it up, the Ancient One's fingers traced the fine details; carved to resemble a dragon's head, he noted a dart was loaded and ready for use. Its removable tail was painstakingly carved as well, and looked like an arrowhead. Detaching the chamber that hung beneath the dragon's belly, Methos peered inside. From what he could see, it contained more of the mean-looking darts.

Carefully replacing the weapon, the Old Man continued his walk around the room, his eyes drawn to the wall; there hung a black and white photograph of Jordan and Duncan; in it, Jordan was laughing, her head thrown back, the Highlander was dressed in a traditional men's kimono, his dark hair long and tied back as he smiled indulgently down at her; they were surrounded by falling cherry blossoms. Taking a closer look at the photograph, Methos saw Jordan was dressed in the same kimono displayed in the shadow box; next to the shadow box, on a shelf, was a snow globe of the Eiffel tower. Methos turned it upside down, the glittery storm swirling around the tower.

"I can't believe you kept it." He said softly. Turning it over, on the bottom, the slightly faded but still legible writing:

_To J.W. from A.P. 1998_

Hearing Duncan's footsteps approach, Methos replaced the snow globe on the shelf. Duncan

appeared in the doorway.

"Let's go." The Highlander said tersely.

"Find what you're looking for?" Methos asked, not bothered by the younger Immortal's bad

mood.

"For now." Duncan replied. Methos gave the room one last look before following the big Scot

out the front door.

Wide-awake, Methos sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the object he held in his hand. Closing his fist tightly, the Immortal squeezed until the cold edges of the gold circlet cut into his palm. The balmy night air had given way to the cool breath of morning; with a quick glance, the alarm clock informed him it was early—three a.m. in the morning; next to it lay his mobile phone. Reaching for it, Methos hesitated before hitting a number on speed dial, counting four rings before someone answered.

"Spencer Manor." A crisp, accented voice answered.

"Mr. Spencer, please." The Immortal requested.

"Whom shall I say is calling?"

"Please tell him Adam Pierson needs to speak with him." Methos said.

"Very good, sir; please wait."

A fire burned merrily in the hearth; hypnotized by the dancing orange flames, Jordan stood clad in her sleep shift; her hand automatically pulling the brush through her locks. Placing the brush on the mantle, her mind replayed the afternoon's events and conversations with the Dwarf and Elf, as she mentally prepared herself for the upcoming hunt.

"You have a fortnight to consider your choice." Lord Elrond's words echoed in her mind.

"I can't believe it's been two weeks already." Jordan said aloud, her feet carrying her to the bed; she was about to climb in when the Buzz grew stronger. Hurriedly wrapping a robe around her, the Immortal went to the door and pulled it open. Legolas stood in the hallway, his hand poised to knock. The surprised expression on his handsome face almost made her laugh out loud.

"Hi." Jordan said, a curious look on her face as she leaned against the open door.

"Hi." The Elf echoed automatically, surprised. Jordan's robe was open, and his bright gaze was drawn to the leaf resting in shadowy depths at her neckline. Though she was clothed, she may as well have been naked; behind her, light spilled into the hallway. The flimsy shift barely hid what the light of the fire and candle revealed to him. His pulse quickened; the Elf's groin twitched, his member starting to swell as he took in her present state of undress. Shaking himself, Legolas focused on what she was saying.

"Legolas? Legolas! Are you allright?" Jordan was waving her hand before his eyes, a concerned expression on her face.

"Er—yes. Jordan, please, I must speak with you." Legolas said. Jordan sighed, knowing he would try one last time to talk her out of going. Stepping aside, Jordan held the door wide open.

"Come in, please." The Elf entered, his astute eyes swept the room, taking in the neat, ordered quarters. Legolas stood before the fire, leaning against the mantle, his sharp ears tracking her movements behind him. Poking her head in the hallway, Jordan looked in both directions. It was empty. Closing the door softly, Jordan leaned against it as she faced him.

"What brings you by?" She asked, already knowing the answer. The Elf swung around, taking a step towards her, before he came to a halt, not wanting to put her on the defensive so soon.

"Two things. I cannot impress upon you how dangerous the hunt will be. I beg you to please reconsider." Legolas said.

Jordan was flattered that this noble Prince would plead with her to stay where she'd be safe; a wasted effort, but appreciated all the same. Jordan smiled, despite the gravity of the conversation. Legolas' quiet voice filled the room; was it her imagination or did his blue eyes seem a little brighter? As he spoke, Jordan watched his mouth, fascinated with the way his sensual lips moved. He was here, they were alone - and all she could think about was the big bed that dominated the room. Blinking several times, Jordan forced herself to concentrate on his words. Pushing herself away from the door, she walked towards him, her tone placating as she came to a stop before him.

"Legolas, please—we've already had this conversation. Lord Elrond agreed to my going; my mind is made up; I'm going. End of story." She said, her tone gentle yet firm.

"Why? Why do you insist on going?" he asked, trying to make her see reason.

"_Utang ng loob_." Jordan murmured softly, more to herself.

"I do not know what you speak of. Your place is not on the battlefield—" Jordan cut him off, her ire roused.

"My '_place_' isn't on the battlefield?! And why not?" she asked, trying to remain calm.

"You could get hurt." Legolas said.

"So could you. So could anyone else going—even Gimli." Jordan countered. She watched as Legolas turned back towards the fireplace. When he looked at her, the flickering firelight bathed his face in shadow and light, making him look like an elemental demi-god

"This is not a game. I cannot be by your side at all times." He said quietly, his blue eyes intense.

"Don't you think I know that? I don't expect you to protect me, Legolas; I know this is serious. I'm not a stranger to bloodshed and violence; I've seen war before and fought in one; believe me, I hope everyone who leaves here returns in one piece." Jordan said.

_Especially you._

"Don't go. Please . . . stay." Legolas said quietly.

"I can't, Legolas. I have to go. " Jordan's heart did a somersault in her chest; for a brief second, she wondered if they were talking about the same thing before dismissing the thought.

_Wishful thinking_.

"It is folly, Jordan!" The Elf insisted, trying to make her see reason.

"I beg to differ. You asked why -let me tell you why, Legolas—'Utang ng loob' in Tagalog it means '_a debt from within_'. I'm here in Middle Earth for who knows how long. Not only am I here, but I'm basically at the mercy of Lord Elrond. From the food I eat to the clothes on my back, to my freedom to roam around, I'm in his debt. I've been working at the House of Healing with Læurenthail—and the Apprentices - every moment I can, trying to pull my weight around this place; I keep my room neat and try not to be too much of a bother, but guess what?! It's not enough. And I don't think Lord Elrond—or whoever handles the coffers, treasury, purse strings or whatever else you call it around here accepts Visa or MasterCard - and I do have both, thank you very much." The Immortal said, her nostrils flaring as she warmed to her cause.

"And as for my '_place_'—I may be a stranger in a strange land, but if Lord Elrond doesn't have a problem with it, then neither do I!" Jordan's voice was dangerously low, her eyes spitting green fire.

"That is your decision, then. You will not reconsider." Legolas said flatly. Exasperated, Jordan put her hands on her hips, looking up at the Elf, her robe parting wider with the gesture.

"Yes, Legolas, that's my final answer. For better or for worse, I'm going." Her words rang with a finality that was unmistakable. Cocking her head to the side, Jordan crossed her arms under her breasts in defiance as she looked up at him, daring him to present another argument. She was starting to enjoy this; it felt oddly liberating to direct her frustration with and desire for the Elf into the safe channel of an argument. Legolas sighed, recognizing the determined set of her shoulders. It was no use. Gimli was right—Jordan would not be swayed from her decision. Perhaps he could try a different approach.

His eyes traveled from her flushed face down the rest of the way; Legolas wondered if she knew how desirable she was. Clothed in her sheer night shift, despite her filmy robe, his keen eyes traced every curve of her body. The warmth of the fire and her passionate defense of her decision made her roses and cream complexion more pronounced. That, in combination with her hair loose about her shoulders, was almost his undoing

They stared at each other for long minutes; Jordan wasn't sure when and how, but sure as she lived and breathed, the mood definitely changed. She suddenly became very aware of how close they were and the intimacy of the situation. If she wanted to, she could reach out and touch his handsome face. Not trusting herself, the Immortal kept her arms crossed as Legolas' face neared. Jordan's mouth suddenly went dry; clearing her throat, she tried to keep the conversation on track.

"Y-you said there were two reasons you were here . . .?" Her voice trailed off as Legolas drew closer.

"I wish to know if I have affronted you; are you angry with me?" Legolas murmured, his blue eyes skewered her in place. Not trusting herself, Jordan took a step back, then another as the Elf slowly but steadily continued to close the distance between them.

"Angry? No, I - I'm busy doing stuff." Jordan stammered as she continued to back away from him, stopping only when she felt her back against the door. Legolas could see the pounding pulse at the base of her throat as she looked up at him, wide eyed. Jordan desperately wished for a cup of cool water to drink. Pressing his advantage, he lowered her face to hers, until it was mere inches apart.

"I've missed your . . . company, Lirimaer (lovely one)." He murmured softly, looking into her eyes. Jordan couldn't tear her eyes from his if her life depended on it.

"Ummmm . . . " She couldn't come up with a coherent response when he was so close to her. If someone hadn't snuck in and poured gasoline on the fire, then the Elf alone was responsible for making her temperature rage simply by being near her. The desire in his eyes didn't help, either.

"I feel you do not wish to be near me." He said, lowering his face to hers.

"It's not that . . . " Jordan said weakly; her body was quivering with anticipation.

"Then what is it?" Legolas said, his nearness almost too much for her to bear.

"I need to know if you truly do not desire my company." He whispered into her ear; his warm breath stirred the strands above her ear, sending goose bumps down her shoulder and arm.

Trying to edge away from the Elf, Legolas placed his left palm flat against the wall by her head, effectively trapping her.

"Wh-why would you think that?" Jordan asked, closing her eyes. Her voice sounded faint and breathless to her own ears.

"Because you do not let me do this." Legolas said as he caressed her cheek. Jordan stiffened for a second before leaning into his warm hand; he gently angled her face up.

"Nae saian luume' (it has been too long) since I've done this . . . " the Elf murmured before pressing his lips to hers in a soft yet insistent kiss.

Jordan's head fell back, resting against the door as Legolas' tongue traced her lips; from her scalp to her toes, her entire body tingled from his touch. Her senses seemed heightened and her skin highly sensitized as his lips brushed hers.

"Do you find me repulsive?" He asked as he nibbled her lips; his hand went to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair as he massaged her scalp.

"Nooooo…." Jordan breathed; in his arms she felt like putty.

Her arms encircled his neck of their own accord as they kissed; the Elf's lips trailed along her jaw and down to her neck. Opening her robe, Legolas slid it over her shoulders where it landed at her feet. Jordan's fingers fumbled clumsily with his tunic clasps before succeeding in undoing them; her fingers splayed out against his firm chest through the thin fabric of his inner tunic; she could feel his muscles flex and move beneath her finger tips. Enfolding her in his arms, Legolas slowly turned her around, moving them closer to the bed as their tongues danced together.

"Why do you deny what is between us?" Legolas asked between mind numbing kisses.

"What exactly is between us, Legolas?" Jordan murmured against his smooth yet strong jaw; against her better judgment, she decided to play the Elf's game and see where it led.

"We belong together." He said, his hands were much too distracting, as they traveled down her neck and down her arm.

"It'd never work out . . . " Jordan breathed as she pulled his head down towards hers. The back of her knees hit the bed; holding onto Legolas' shoulders, Jordan continued to kiss the Elf. Drawing back from the woman, Legolas touched his forehead to hers.

"Mankoi (why)?" the simple question was like a douse of cold water on Jordan's ardor.

Looking at the Elf with her heart in her eyes, Jordan remained silent as Legolas waited for her reply; instead, she kissed him deeply, putting into it all her feeling, fear and desire for him. In answer, Legolas held her tight against him, the unmistakable bulge of his arousal hard and hot pressed against her. After a moment he held her away from him.

"Your heart calls to mine, Melamin (my love). Why do you resist?" The flame of desire and something akin to anger burned in his bright gaze, mesmerizing her.

"I don't belong here, Legolas. It's only a matter of time before I go home. Maybe tomorrow, maybe a few weeks, maybe months. I know it- I'll go home. Then what? Where does that leave us?" Jordan said.

"Middle Earth or Rivendell could be your home if you choose. You have attempted to return, yet failed. Surely that proves you belong here." Legolas said.

Jordan remained silent. Seeing the uncertainty in her eyes was enough for Legolas; satisfied that he'd accomplished at least one of his goals, the Elf didn't press the woman for an answer; instead, he kissed her again, breaking it off as he disengaged her arms from round his neck. Lifting her hands to his lips, he tenderly kissed the tips before releasing them. Jordan stared in disbelief as he turned to leave. Reaching the door, he stooped to pick up her discarded robe, and carefully laid it on a low stool nearby. His hand reached for the decorative door pull.

"Quel kaima (sleep well), Jordan." Legolas said quietly over his shoulder, before slipping outside; the Elf closed the door softly behind him. Jordan stood, stunned with the turn of events. Hot and bothered, she almost called him back to finish what they started.

"Oooooo!" Instead, Jordan snatched a pillow off the bed and hurled it at the door with all her might. Despite the fire, the Immortal felt cold and bereft without his presence; it was as if the warmth left with the fair Elf. Frustrated in more ways than one, the Jordan sat down hard on the bed; staring at the door, she shook her head, before climbing between the sheets.

Outside her door, Legolas refastened the clasps of his tunic, his fingers shaking. Walking gingerly, the Elf needed several minutes to bring his body under control; it was very . . . uncomfortable having his member fully engorged and straining for release-which seemed to happen a lot when Jordan was around, or even with the mere thought of her. Rounding the corner that led back to the main hall-loud and clear—his keen sense of hearing registered Jordan's frustration and the thud of the pillow as it struck the door. Legolas smiled to himself as he stepped out into the night.

Northern England

Spencer Manor

"Adam, it's been, what—years?" A man's soft, accented voice spoke.

"I've lost track; time flies, does it not?" Methos said.

"You could say that." The disembodied voice answered.

"How's your wife?"

"Lovely as ever. To what do I owe this pleasure?" The curiosity was undisguised.

"I need a favor. Face time in fifteen minutes." Methos said, before ending the call.

The Ancient Immortal tapped his mobile phone lightly against his forehead then tossed it back onto the bedside table. Swiping his hands across his eyes, Methos stretched before quietly making his way to Duncan's office.


	14. Leave None Alive

Jordan lay in bed staring at the undulating shadows on the ornate ceiling high above her. To attempt sleep after Legolas' _visit_ would be an exercise in futility; she threw back the bed sheets and sat up, needing to work off her frustration before sleep could become a reality. A part of the night stirred before detaching itself from his place; movement in the distance caught the attention of Elf eyes. They followed the figure as it kept to the shadows, stealing across the wide, dark expanse of courtyard, until it disappeared into the tree line; the guards allowed the figure to reach its destination. By moonlight, Jordan slowly picked her way through the dark woods. The sheltered glade had become her favorite retreat, no matter the time of day or night. The cold night air chilled her clothes, leaching the warmth from her body. Oblivious, Jordan stood motionless; an occasional soft breeze stirred her dark hair and ruffled her tunic.

_Never touch the blade. Always use the hilt. Take good care of it; there will be a time when it'll be the only friend you'll have. _ Duncan's admonition whispered in her mind.

With a humorless grin, Jordan unsheathed her Katana, running her palm lightly above the cold blade, drawing strength and comfort from the familiar weapon. The Immortal raised her sword high above her head; lowering herself into a deep stance, Jordan took a steadying breath, cleared her mind and began an intricate Kata.

::: _Mt. Fuji, Japan_

_ 1947_

_The sacred, conically shaped mountain's valley was blanketed in a thick mist; though it felt like days, the tiny_

_village nestled near its base was left behind hours ago, as the fledgling Immortal and her First Teacher hiked over thirty seven hundred meters. Wending their way up the steep mountainside, their ascent took them thru the low-lying clouds that surrounded the mountain's base and reached its mid point. Scaling the sullen seventy to eighty degree steep path was not easy, for it was liberally strewn with rocks of various sizes deposited by volcanic activity; other sections had generous heaps of loose gravel underfoot—or both. Trailing behind her Teacher, Jordan kept her head low as she trudged along, concentrating on placing one foot before the other. The thin air made Jordan double her efforts to fill her lungs with oxygen. _

_ Exhausted, the young Immortal's resolution to keep pace with Duncan was rapidly disappearing; her arms and legs ached beyond description. Goose bumps rose on her skin and her teeth chattered as a cold wind began to blow. The single torch Duncan held aloft was the only point of light on the dark mountainside. Thankfully, the full moon shone full and bright, helping to light the way. She narrowly avoided colliding with the Highlander and almost dropped her burden when he came to an abrupt halt. Duncan gazed out at the horizon. Black and gray nothingness stretched before them as far as the eye could see. Shrugging off his pack, Duncan instructed his student to sit and catch her breath while he studied the terrain, deciding the niche where they rested would serve his purpose; to one side of the path lay a large outcropping of boulders that acted as a windbreak. Sinking gratefully onto a dead tree stump, the torches Jordan carried clattered to the ground. With a groan, she gathered them into a somewhat ordered pile. Accustomed to sweltering tropical heat, the unpredictable wind's determination to drive the cold into her very bones was a new and miserable experience for her; at least the effort of walking and hauling the torches up the mountainside kept her somewhat warm. Huddled into a ball, shoulders hunched, Jordan wrapped her arms tightly around herself, tucking her hands into her armpits in an effort to warm them. Like her, the Scot was clad in thin, loose fitting clothes, yet he appeared unaffected by the bitter cold. Jordan took the opportunity to observe her First Teacher. Recently discharged from his military service, the elder__Immortal's dark hair had grown long enough for him to tie back in a short queue. Jordan stared resentfully at Duncan's back, not bothering to hide her expression when he looked back at her. She scowled as he winked at her. Gathering the torches, the Highlander set them alight, wedging several between heavy rocks; others were thrust into the ground, their pitiful lights shone bravely despite the whipping wind. Several torches lost the battle with the elements, their lights flared in a final attempt to shine, before flickering out. _

"_I c-can't feel my hands; what makes you think I can h-hold a sword?" Jordan complained. The chilly air _

_seared her nose, making it painful to breathe._

_ "I know what will help you." Duncan said._

_ "A basin of saki?" Jordan asked hopefully._

_ "You don't drink." _

_ "Right now, I'm willing to make an exception. If it'll warm me, I'll swim in it!" _

_ "Not if it'll cloud your mind, you won't! There's something even better than alcohol—Katas!" Duncan said cheerily. Jordan groaned in protest. _

"_D-Duncan, can we do this when it w-warms up?" she plaintively asked, shivering violently. _

_ "You'll get warm. Once you get moving you won't notice -"_

_ "You're not the one whose f-freezing certain body p-parts off!" she interrupted heatedly. _

"_As I was saying—once you get moving, you'll be fine. Only because you're a Fledgling, the elements still affect you. Over time, your tolerance will build up; you'll withstand inclement weather that would otherwise kill you, if you were mortal. In the meantime, mind over matter, Jordie. You can't let the elements distract you-especially during a challenge. Focus. You need to focus on one thing—and that's keeping your head. Now come on—let's go."_

_ Striding over to her, Duncan grasped Jordan by her shoulders and pulled her to her feet. Briskly rubbing her upper arms, he gave her an encouraging smile. _

_ "One day you just might thank me, Jordie." He said softly._

_ "For freezing me up here? I don't think s-so!" she retorted. Nevertheless, Jordan took her place beside him._

_ Standing an arm's length from the Highlander, Jordan gritted her teeth against the cold; her jerked movements rough in comparison to her Teacher's smooth, controlled gestures; she did her best to focus on muscle and breath control, a difficult task when you couldn't feel your fingers; during her attempt to hold a kick, a sudden gust of wind showered the pair with pine needles and nearly blew Jordan over. Determined to not put her foot down, Jordan's arms waved wildly; she took three small hops before recovering her balance. Stealing a glance at Duncan, she saw the twitch of his lips; the Highlander was unfazed by the gust, his balance perfect, his movements deliberate. The young Immortal bit back a scream of frustration as she resumed the pose. Eventually, Jordan's discomfort, though not totally forgotten, faded as she concentrated._

_While the Immortals' hands and bodies moved thru the lengthy and elaborate exercise, the dark sky slowly_

_lightened to pale orange-pink, before giving way to glorious, intense combinations of blue, red, orange and yellow as the sun broke thru, rising above the clouds. Completing the final gesture of the Kata in unison with her Teacher, Jordan's movements were now controlled - though not quite as graceful as the Highlander's, as they returned to their original starting point. Before them the sun hovered, suspended between the cloud cover below and the Immortals above, as if it pausing for their viewing pleasure alone._

_It was a breathtaking sight. The gentle warmth of the first rays of sunlight felt like a welcome caress to the thoroughly chilled student. Turning to her, the Highlander smiled. _

"_They don't call Japan the 'Land of the Rising Sun' for nothing." He said. Beside him, Jordan nodded in_

_agreement._

"_Now wasn't that worth getting up early for?" He asked. Jordan glowered at him. The Highlander grinned. _

"_Duncan?" she said._

"_Hmmm?" he replied, still looking at the magnificent sunrise._

"_I'm still cold." Jordan said. Truthfully, she was. However, the discomfort was bearable now, though she _

_was not about to admit that to him._

"_No Immortal ever died of a chill, Jordie. Try not to think about it." He suggested.  
_

"_I already tried; it didn't work." She replied._

_ "Do another Kata." _

"_I don't feel like doing another one." She whined. _

_Jordan was enjoying her childish game. Baiting her Teacher, though not necessarily wise, took her mind from the bitter cold. She considered it payback for dragging her from her warm bed and taking her on what he said would be 'a moonlit stroll'; Duncan had distracted Jordan with interesting stories and anecdotes about his broad travels. By the time she caught on, it was too late to turn back. Jordan didn't know how to find the way back on her own, and her Teacher held their only source of reliable illumination, leaving her no choice but to follow. _

'_Moonlit stroll' – ha! _

"_Jordie, Katas can help you in more ways than you can possibly imagine. You'd do well to do them often. _

_If you choose your battles wisely, you'll have plenty of time to probe the deeper meanings of each movement. Watch me." _

_Jordan settled back onto her tree stump and tucked her hands back into her armpits. The wind was still, _

_granting a reprieve. Before her, Duncan began the Kata; for a large, muscular man, he moved with the grace and agility of a dancer, no doubt attributed to the many fighting styles he'd been exposed to – and learned thru the years; it truly was a pleasure to watch him. Unconsciously, Jordan found herself searching for the 'deeper meaning' hidden behind every gesture and nuance of hand and body. The Highlander's movements became faster, more explosive, dynamic, and frighteningly powerful. Jordan stared in awe, recognizing but not quite believing it was the same exercise they performed side by side; watching Duncan perform it solo, its significance changed. Slowly, she was beginning to understand what he meant. When he finished, Jordan looked at him thoughtfully, though she remained silent. Duncan raised an eyebrow._

"_You make it look easy." She finally commented._

"_You can do it too." He replied; she snorted in response. _

"_It takes dedication, repetition and meditation. I didn't learn this over night." He said._

"_How long?" she asked. He looked at her, his head cocked to the side appraisingly._

"_A couple of centuries. And counting." He said. _

_Jordan pursed her lips. She continued to think on the matter while she watched the clouds slowly recede and_

_reveal the horizon. The sun rose higher in the sky, the chill in the air starting to lose its bite and thankfully, the wind still gave them a reprieve. _

"_The sword is your life. It is the soul of the Samurai; you DO NOT go anywhere without your_

_sword. If you go down, your sword goes down with you. Understand?" Duncan said. _

_Reluctantly dragging her eyes from the sight before her, Jordan fixed her attention upon her Teacher. Unsheathing his Dragonhead Katana, Duncan held it just above the pommel; it balanced perfectly on his fingertip. _

_ " 'Those who live by the sword, die by the sword'." Jordan quoted._

_ "True. I hope you'll not be on the receiving end of that proverb for centuries, Jordie; you'll be challenged by men and women with centuries of experience - men and women who live and die by the sword. To give you a fighting chance, you must learn the finer points of swordplay. Observe." _

_He quickly drew his sword, slicing the air as he spun, his movements so fast the very air hummed. Duncan sheathed his Katana in a smooth, quiet movement; save for a three-foot radius where he stood, the pine needles blanketing the ground around him remained undisturbed. _

"_The spirit, mind and body must be one." He said. _

_Tossing his Katana to her blade first, Jordan leaped out of the way, landing in the dirt in an undignified heap. _

_The sword was embedded in the stump, quivering._

"_Why'd you do that?" she asked, annoyed. Jordan climbed to her feet, dusting herself off. _

"_Focus, Jordie. If you were paying attention, you could've caught it. Now get it and let's begin." _

_Pulling Duncan's sword free, Jordan swung it around experimentally, adjusting her grip on the hilt. It felt heavy and unwieldy to her. Reaching into his pack, Duncan pulled out a wooden sword carven to resemble a Katana. Trading swords, he motioned for her to take her place beside him. Jordan swung it around, getting a feel for the mock sword._

_ "Once you truly understand your sword, it becomes an extension of your body; fighting with your own weapon is preferred; if that's not possible, you must work with what you've got. Adaptation's the name, survival the Game. Now, let's do it again." Swords in hand, the Immortals began the Kata once more while the sun rose higher in the sky. :::_

After completing the Kata, Jordan felt centered and capable of rational thought, at least for now. To say she was confused would be an understatement. Just saying Legolas' name sent shivers down her spine. The Immortal frowned. Having been burned once was bad enough; if she lived for centuries, no doubt it wouldn't be the last time, but that didn't mean she would knowingly play the fool again. Jordan wanted to go home. She couldn't afford any distractions, especially one named Legolas Greenleaf. Focus. Yes, that's what she needed to do.

Jordan stood and sheathed her blade quietly, listening to the stillness of the night as she made her way back to

her quarters. There would be plenty of time to think about Legolas - - - after the hunt. Changing into her sleep shift, she brushed her hair and crawled back into bed.

"In more ways than I could imagine. You were right, Duncan." She murmured softly; before long, she drifted into sleep.

Jordan indulged in a long bath before getting dressed. Although she slept, she did not feel wholly rested, as her thoughts dwelt on the forthcoming activities. Before her Immortality was triggered, bloodshed was not in Jordan's easygoing nature; the Game, she mused, made it a necessary and sometimes distasteful act. In the overall scheme of things, it was and always would be a simple matter of survival.

"Those . . . 'creatures' deserve nothing but death." She muttered to herself, rubbing her throat in memory.

Buttoning her vest, Jordan sat on a chair and quickly plaited her hair into two French braids, securing the ends with slender leather cords she found in a drawer. Reaching for her boots, she pulled them on then buckled her weapons around her waist, adjusting her Katana before slipping into her overcoat. Ensuring her shuriken were secure, Jordan slung the satchel filled with Lembas, bandages, salves and other Elvish medicines over her shoulder.

Eyeing the bowl of fruit in the middle of the table, Jordan instead reached for the Lembas in a covered dish and broke off a healthy piece to nibble on the way out. She pivoted sharply, her overcoat snapping smartly against her heels as she descended the balcony steps. The Immortal arrived in the main courtyard to find the hunting party already assembled, checking over last minute details. She noticed some Elves were armed with long spears and swords; slender, curved knives of varying lengths were strapped to their bodies as well, blades adorned with ornate etchings that shone brightly in the early morning light.

Close by, archers warmed their bowstrings, testing the draw weight. The quivers on their back were full; extra arrows were in a separate quiver ingeniously strapped to their thighs, in a way that allowed access without limiting movement. It was bizarre to see these fabled creatures outfitted for battle; under their gentle natures was an obvious capacity for violence and warfare. Were these the same beings that sang so marvelously and danced ever so gracefully just days ago? Jordan couldn't quite reconcile the image of the beautiful, elegant beings so dangerously armed. She was still pondering the thought when she felt a touch on her arm.

"Jordan, you're up at this blasted hour too, eh?" Gimli's blustery voice sounded at her elbow. Dressed in his gear, he looked every inch the fierce warrior, his axes gleaming in the early light.

"As you are, Master Gimli. What's the game plan?" Her eyes twinkled at him. At his look of confusion, she clarified herself. "How are we going to do this? Are we riding out or going on foot?"

"We're to walk to the areas the scouts sighted Orcs."

"Is Legolas going with us?" She asked, trying to keep her tone nonchalant. The Dwarf looked at her, his eyes shrewd.

"Nay, Lassie, he left late last night with the other scouts. They sent word on where to go, and that's where we're headed." Jordan nodded, absorbing that piece of information.

Silhouetted in his westward facing window, Elrond observed the gathering below, his eyes resting on the woman. Glancing up, Jordan met and held his gaze. She touched her heart and forehead in a gesture of respect. The Elven Lord nodded in return; at his signal, the assembly silently headed towards the borders of Rivendell.

As planned, five of the ten elves took to the trees, the rest fanned out, noiselessly moving thru the forest floor. Making their way thru the wooded area, Jordan knew it would be a good day for battle, for the ground was dry, the sky above cloudless. It wasn't long before they encountered a handful of Orcs. The miserable creatures gave a worthy struggle, but were no match for the Elven warriors or their lethal arrows.

The Elves piled the carcasses in a heap. Jordan watched as they went about their grisly task; silently, the archers collected spent arrows before beheading the creatures for good measure. Lunch was eaten on the run; Jordan wasn't the only one who thought to pack Lembas, for the Elves brought it out from their tunic pockets, unwrapping and breaking off pieces to eat. With a conspiratorial wink, Gimli brought out dried meat, passing her three long strips. They continued in that fashion for the duration of the day, encountering and eliminating pockets of Orcs, the tree-born Elves rotated with the ground team. Given the advantage of advance information and the element of surprise, Jordan was beginning to think it would be a relatively simple task of extermination; at the rate they were going, she believed they'd surely make it back before mid night. It was towards dusk when it all changed.

Suddenly, shouts of warning came from the trees as arrows flew towards them from all directions, landing in the ground and trees with a thud; several whizzed past Jordan. She quickly reversed her satchel, using it as a makeshift shield as she scrambled for cover. Nimbly dodging the deadly projectiles, the archers on foot lobbed off a return volley of their arrows into the shifting shadows, as the nightmarish forms of Orcs and what must be the Uruk-hai swarmed towards them. With a growl of anticipation, Gimli rushed to meet them. From behind the protection of a tree, Jordan again reversed her satchel and peeked out at the ruckus.

_There's so many . . !_ Gathering her courage, Jordan drew her Katana and stepped forward into the fray.

_Oh boy, here we go . . ! she thought. A_drenalin coursed through Jordan's veins. She was about to join the

Dwarf, when from the corner of her eye, she saw an Elf go down, a black-shafted arrow protruding from his left shoulder.

Keeping her head low as she ran to him, Jordan dragged him to a sheltering copse of bushes. Willing them to be invisible, she kept a watchful eye on the melee surrounding them as she shrugged off the satchel, searching for the salve that would stop the spread of poison and staunch the bleeding. The Elf's jaw was clenched tight against the pain, his breathing shallow and rapid. All around them, the fierce cries of battle rent the air.

"My Lady-"

"Shhhh—what's your name?"

"Maeglin Lossëhelin" Jordan raised an eyebrow at the unusual name, but continued to work.

"Well, Maeglin, I'm Jordan—bite down!"

Kneeling over him, she stuffed an herb filled sachet in his mouth, the anesthetizing vapors released as he bit down; lines of pain were etched in the Elf's noble face, a sheen of perspiration appeared on his brow; Jordan gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Working swiftly, she cut away his tunic and examined the wound, relieved to see the arrowhead jutting from his back; the Elf's bright red blood coated the black shaft. On the arrowhead itself was a thick, oily substance that Jordan didn't like the look of. Keeping him on his side, with a swift stroke of her sword, she cut the arrow, leaving half an inch of the shaft above the wound. To his credit, the Elf didn't move. Jordan looked at Maeglin; he gave a quick nod, his hands clutched the scabbard of his sword.

"I'm sorry. Hang on." She said.

Jordan grasped the arrow carefully, quickly pulling it out; the Elf's body lurched in pain. Smearing the entry and exit sides of the wound with salve, she covered them with a bandage; Jordan was reaching for more bandages when a roar made the hairs on the nape of her neck stand. Looking up, the largest, most hideous creature beyond her wildest nightmares was striding towards them, a lethal looking spear in its hand. Legolas' and Gimli's description of the improved version of Orc didn't do it justice; it had to be at least seven feet tall, heavily muscled, and bent on utter destruction.

_Oh. No. . !_ she thought.

Jordan needed both hands free. Laying Maeglin on his back, she applied pressure to bandage on the Elf's wound with her knee while she readied her shuriken. Below her, the Elf gasped in pain as her knee dug into his wound. Jordan spared him a quick glance.

"Sorry about that - - here, press down on this." She said, placing the Elf's right hand on the bandage. He struggled to raise himself on his left elbow.

"Don't move! Your bandages aren't secured." She snapped. Obediently, the Elf lay back down. Jordan turned her

attention back to the Uruk-Hai.

_Their armor is weak at the neck and beneath the arm . . ._ Legolas' words came back to her.

Eyes narrowed in concentration, she calmly waited until the creature was ten paces away; its muscled arm drew back,

ready to skewer them; aiming for it's unprotected throat, Jordan threw four shurikens as hard as she could in quick succession. The Uruk-hai dropped the spear as it fell to its knees with a pig-like squeal. Out of nowhere, an arrow appeared in the creature's throat. Keeping an eye on it, she hurriedly bound Maeglin's wound.

"My Lady, is he safe to move?" An archer dropped from the trees, providing cover for her as she tied a knot on the bandage.

"Hurry—before I have to do the same for you. Get him out of here!" Quickly stuffing the contents back into the satchel, Jordan slipped it on.

Sword in hand, she kept watch, making sure no creature interfered with the evacuation as the Elf lifted Maeglin to another waiting in the trees. Looking up, she saw they were gone. Going to the Uruk-hai, Jordan sheathed her sword and quickly retrieved her shuriken, wiping them on her overcoat hem as she surveyed the battle.

A short distance away, Gimli and other Elves were making short work of the Orcs foolish enough to attack them, yet more of the fell creatures seemed to take their place. All around her the bodies of Orcs and Uruk-hai lay strewn about the forest floor. Looking around, Jordan saw an Elf among the carnage; hurrying to him, she crouched at his side. There was nothing she could do for him; he'd been disemboweled, his sightless eyes gazing up at the sky above; Immortal, but not invulnerable. With great sadness, Jordan closed his eyes, and arranged his cloak to cover the exposed intestines. Soon the cloak darkened as it absorbed the spilt blood. Burning with impotent anger that one of these beautiful beings died, around her the battle raged on.

Before Jordan could stand, an Orc literally stumbled upon her. Raising a wicked looking dagger, it sprang towards her, fanged mouth open in anticipation of the kill. Jordan's sticks materialized in her hands—all organized thought ceased as her training kicked in. It's dagger swooped down, stopping mere inches from her face, caught in the crux of her sticks as she brought them up; her arms trembling with the effort of keeping it at bay as the Orc tried to press it home.

_Damn they're strong!_

Above her sticks, their eyes locked; he was so close she could smell his rancid breath. With a grimace of disgust, Jordan used her legs to propel herself to a standing position, pushing the Orc back and away; the creature sprang towards her, dagger poised for another stab. With her sticks, she caught the dagger in the crux again, wrenching it from the Orc's grasp with a quick twist. Bringing her leg up, she kneed it in the groin. The creature clutched itself, shrieking in pain and fury.

Holding her sticks as a bat, Jordan swung as hard as she could; it connected with a satisfying crunch. The Orc's jaw shattered from the blow as it landed facedown on the ground with a howl. Dropping to one knee, Jordan scooped up its fallen dagger, plunging it deep into the back of its neck, giving it a vicious twist. It's spinal cord severed. The Immortal watch detachedly as it jerked spastically before laying still.

Attracted by the commotion, another Orc came towards Jordan; he barreled towards her, intent on the seemingly easy target. Jordan stood her ground. Hissing, it circled her; the Immortal warily tracked it, her sticks held in readiness, her eyes studying the subtle nuances of the Orc's movements. It swung its scimitar at Jordan, quickly stepping back beyond her sticks' reach when she countered his attack. Circling each other, the Orc continued to test her-striking, then backing away, attacking from different angles, testing her.

_It's toying with me!_ she realized, incredulous.

_He's smarter than he looks! _

With alarming swiftness, the Orc lunged at her, swinging his scimitar at her torso. She leaped back, hearing the _whoosh_ as it passed. Before the Orc could complete the arc of his swing, Jordan launched a rapid series of offensive strikes, trapping the Orc's wrist with her sticks, she pulled him closer to her, immediately countering his attack with a simultaneous stick strike to his neck; stunned, it faltered, dropping its weapon. She continued her assault with a series of rapid strikes rendering the Orc incapacitated. With her left foot, Jordan delivered a crippling kick, knocking his right knee out of alignment; pinning his knee to the ground with her foot Jordan followed up with another stick strike to the jaw and a swift and hard knee kick to the throat, breaking the jaw and crushing his windpipe. As he fell to the ground, Jordan kicked him in the throat again for good measure, before turning and running away, leaving it to suffocate to death.

Locking her sticks into a bo as she ran, Jordan hadn't gone far when she tripped on a hidden tree root. Sprawled ignominiously in the dirt face first, her bo lay just beyond her reach. Mortified, Jordan was glad Duncan didn't witness this moment—he'd never let her live it down. Coughing, she pushed herself on to her knees, reaching for her staff; it slipped from her grasp as she was lifted up roughly by the collar of her overcoat, then roughly shaken and turned around.

_This can't be good _she thought dismally. A sense of déjà vu came over her as she looked at the creature that held her suspended. This time it was an Uruk-hai

_Why does this always happen to me? _

Thinking fast, Jordan spat out the dirt that was in her mouth into the Uruk's eyes, distracting it. Quickly lifting her arms

straight up, she slid out of her overcoat and landed on her feet in a crouch, leaving the momentarily confused Uruk-hai with the empty garment.

_The faster you draw your sword, the more precise your cuts, the surer your chance of victory_. Duncan's words whispered in her mind.

From her angle, she could see an opening where the breastplate fell away from his torso. Seizing the opportunity, Jordan swiftly drew her Katana and sprung at him, using the force of her momentum. She ran the creature thru with her sword, her blade sinking into its flesh with surprisingly little resistance. Yanking her Katana out, Jordan whirled, her blade flashing. Flicking the foul blood from her blade, she sheathed it and bent down to retrieve her overcoat. The Uruk's head fell away from its shoulders, its face frozen in a surprised snarl as its body thudded forward. Jordan adjusted her collar; using the toe of her boot, she flipped her bo up in the air, catching it neatly. Taking a moment to get her bearings, Jordan spied an Orc stab an Elf in the side; unlocking and holstering her sticks, she ran towards them full tilt. The Orc was about to deal a deathblow to the fallen Elf. She wouldn't get there in time. Jordan reached for her stars; taking careful aim, she quickly threw them as hard as she could. They buried themselves in the Orc's arm and hand. It was enough to divert the killing blow; with a screech, the Orc turned to meet Jordan—then lost its head. Falling to her knees before the Elf, she quickly set to work.

"Whew, almost didn't make it in time - thought you could use some help. Don't believe we've met. I'm Jordan." The Elf blinked at the woman hovering above him as she chattered breathlessly.

"Your timing is most welcome. I am Camthalion Tasardur, Lady Jordan - and thank you." He gasped; his smile was more of a grimace as a wave of pain washed over him. Jordan could see the dark spot on his brown tunic grow larger.

She used her sword to slit his tunic apart, keeping a calm expression on her face as she assessed his wound: bright red blood oozed from the puncture wound, the uneven rise and fall of his chest; reaching for his hand, she felt his wrist. The Elf's pulse was rapid; he was starting to wheeze, his breathing grew labored, and his lips had a slight bluish tinge. Not good. Glancing at his eyes, she was glad to see they were still clear. Checking to see if there was blood pooling beneath him, her concern grew when there was none. Worried about possible internal bleeding, Jordan applied salve and a pressure dressing on the wound, binding it with more bandages. Already blood was starting to seep through.

_Punctured lung_ Jordan thought grimly. As if in answer, the Elf coughed weakly. She looked up into the trees, immensely relieved to see the same Elves from the previous evacuation making their way towards her. Jordan gave the Elf's hand a squeeze.

"Get the lead out, guys! Let's go!" she called. She looked at Camthalion.

"Here comes your ride out, Camthalion. Don't you die on my watch!" she said fiercely, touching his cool cheek. The Elf's

face was pale, yet his eyes were still bright.

"I will . . . do my best . . . not to. . . Lady." He whispered with a smile. Despite the gravity of the situation, Jordan smiled

back. The Elves dropped lightly to the ground, helping the wounded Elf onto his feet.

"Quickly—take him to Læurenthail! Run!" Though her voice was low, the urgency was unmistakable.

Glad to see them gone, Jordan retrieved her stars and was en route to join Gimli when five Orcs surrounded her. Advancing on her with their weapons drawn, their snarling and hissing made the hair on her arms stand. Eyes narrowed, Jordan took out her sticks, locking them. Whirling it slowly to get the proper balance, she tracked their positions; Jordan spun her bo with lightning speed around her, then struck a hard fighting stance, noticing their heads were bare. She smiled. Intimidated, the Orcs hesitated for a second before leaping upon her as one.

Furiously spinning her staff about, Jordan stayed safely out of their weapons' reach, keeping them at bay as she parried and blocked their thrusts, her bo dealing more than its fair share of hurt as it solidly connected with Orc flesh numerous times. The Immortal's flowing spins, slashing staff strikes and arching kicks gave her the appearance of a wind devil. Snarling, the creatures were forced to keep their distance, unable to reach her. Jordan drove the end of her staff into the ground; hoping her weight didn't break the locking mechanism, she used it to launch herself into the Orc in front of her with a hard front kick. She felt her heel connect solidly with the Orc's lower jaw, his head rearing back.

Changing her grip on the staff, Jordan used the ends to give the Orc two quick and solid whacks across the temples, then used all her weight to bring it down hard on his skull; the sound of bone shattering filled the air as the Orc spun and landed on the ground, unmoving. Another Orc soon took its place. Without hesitation, she planted the end of her staff in the dirt; her left leg lashed out in a spinning sidekick as she brought her bo crashing against the Orc's jaw, whipping its head to the side. With a quick jab, she ran the tapered end thru its neck. It fell to the ground, rolling in agony, a gaping hole in its throat.

_Anything and everything is allowed; don't forget you have two hands ._ . .

Dropping to one knee, Jordan threw two stars at the Orc closest to her. Squealing in pain, it clutched it's neck; dark blood bubbled around the shuriken edges, the creature fell to the ground, it's foul blood rhythmically staining the dirt beneath with each beat of it's heart. Leaping to her feet, Jordan twirled her staff forward, and in a backspin until it blurred, varying the combinations; unable to guess her next move, the two remaining Orcs snarled their frustration, unable to get close to her - driven back by the Immortal's unfamiliar attack. Instead, they feinted and retreated, circling-trying to disrupt her focus.

Deciding she had enough, Jordan lunged at the closer Orc, pushing him back with the end of her bo. It grabbed her staff, and tenaciously hung on. Behind her, the other Orc rushed her back. Using her bo to jerk the Orc towards her, with a quick, hard thrust, she pushed it back, and let go; the unexpected maneuver threw the Orc off balance as she dropped onto her knee and whipped her sword out; pivoting on her knee, she brought her blade up in a high, wide arc, beheading the Orc behind her.

Instinctively diving to the side, a '_whoosh' _rent the air where her head was a second ago; Jordan rolled and leapt to her feet. The remaining Orc stood, her staff in its hand. Snarling, it hurled the staff at her like a spear, barely in time, Jordan threw herself to the side, the staff missing her by inches. Scowling, Jordan faced the Orc. The creature picked up a hooked sword from it's fallen companion. Brandishing it with a scream akin to nails on a chalkboard, it ran towards Jordan. Fanning her blade, Jordan gripped her Katana firmly with both hands, and rushed to meet him, their blades ringing with a reverberating clang as they met, each trying to gain the advantage over the other with brute force, yet for the moment were evenly matched.

"I will eat your heart while you watch!" It snarled. Surprised the Orc was capable of speech, Jordan's eyes narrowed.

"Sorry, my heart's already taken-and its definitely not by you!" she retorted. The Orc's sword pressed closer. Suddenly, its dark tongue snaked out, wriggling obscenely.

"I will taste you first!" it leered. A look of revulsion crossed the Immortal's face.

"This conversation's over!" Jordan declared.

Gritting her teeth, she brought her right knee up, driving it into its groin, then swiftly hooked her right foot behind his leg, causing it to stumble back. The sword slid from its grasp as its arms pin wheeled, staggering back. It had the presence of mind to backhand the Immortal as he went down. Instinctively, she turned her head to avoid the brunt of the blow, but not before the Orcs clawed hand left four deep scratches across her face.

"That was your last mistake." She said, her voice low. In answer, the Orc snarled defiantly.

Jordan kicked his feet out from under him; driving her sword down, she pinned the creature to the ground. The Orc's hands scrabbled uselessly against her blade. Wrenching her blade free, the Immortal brought it down on the creature's neck, relieving it of its head in one smooth stroke. Jordan flicked its dark blood from her Katana. Breathing hard, she wiped away the sweat from her forehead and neck, gingerly touching her stinging cheek as she looked around and gathered her shuriken. Elves were busy holding their own, their gleaming blades flashing; she spied Gimli in the midst of a cluster of Orcs,

Flying high on adrenalin, Jordan fought her way towards the Dwarf, protecting his back as more creatures converged on them.

"Where've you been, Lass?" the Dwarf asked, swinging his double-headed axe at an Orc's head.

"Oh, here and there." Jordan panted.

"Plenty to go around, there is!" Gimli said. He jabbed the face of an Orc with the end of his axe before slicing its neck open. Jordan wiped her forehead on her sleeve and brought her blade up to block a blow from an Orc. Jordan saw the Dwarf do a quick double take when he glanced at her face.

"Do you think I'm ugly, Gimli?" Jordan joked, dodging a thrust to her side.

"You're as comely as the day I first saw you, Lass." Jordan laughed, for she was doing the same thing when they first met—fighting Orcs; she did not look her best then, and Jordan was certain she looked a fright now.

"You sweet talker you!" she exclaimed. Ducking beneath a blade, Jordan the hilt of her sword to punch the Orc in the face and quickly reversed her grip to slice its head off.

"Fight now, talk later, Lass!"

The Immortal and the Dwarf fought back to back for what seemed an interminable amount of time; in the heat of battle, Jordan didn't notice she was moving away from Gimli. Jordan quickly sheathed her blade and reached for her sticks, wanting to put as much distance between the Orcs and herself;. Swinging her staff around, Jordan swept the legs of an Orc out from under him, and then stabbed the creature thru the eye with the tapered end. Pressing her full weight on the staff, Jordan took a moment to catch her breath. An Elf and an Orc swept by her as they fought; pulling her staff free, she threw a star with her free hand. The Orc tensed in pain as the shuriken buried itself in the side of its thick neck. It was all that the Elf needed to end the Orc's miserable existence. Readying another shuriken, Jordan searched for a suitable target.

Jordan's arm was drawn back, poised and about to throw another star when warning bells in her gut made her head turn, her braids flying; her left bicep stung with a sudden, intense pain as she heard a loud _thwack, thwack, thwack _uncomfortably close in the tree behind her. Hearing Gimli yell her name, she stepped towards him when she was jerked back, her staff falling to the ground. Jordan couldn't move. At Gimli's shout, she looked up to see an Uruk-hai walking towards her. Realizing the sounds were that of crossbow bolts landing in the trees behind her, the woman saw with alarm two had pinned her overcoat and sleeve to the tree, the third skewered one of her braids.

_Awwww hell!_ she thought to herself.

Confident she was held in place, the fell creature leveled his crossbow in line with her heart. Time slowed—everything moved in surrealistic slow motion around her, when she heard _thunk!_

"Move, woman!" the Dwarf roared.

Time snapped back into place, sound returned in a rush. Spurred into action, Jordan lunged forward out of her overcoat, and not a moment too soon, as another _thwack!_ sounded. Rolling to a crouch, her eyes went to the arrow that would've pierced her heart.

"Dirty bastard—that was an ARMANI!" Infuriated, she leaped to her feet, her hands a blur as she threw her remaining shuriken.

One landed deep in its cheek, another in its neck, missing the artery; the rest were buried in the Uruk's thick leather armor and muscled arms; unfazed, it stared curiously at the stars buried in its chest and biceps. Dropping its crossbow, the creature casually plucked the shuriken out one by one, before easily crumpling them in its heavy fist like tin foil. Jordan gasped in disbelief.

"Hey!" she shouted. The Uruk gave a harsh guttural laugh, if one could call it such.

Touching a clawed finger to its check, it licked the dark blood then plucked the star out. Studying it, the Uruk's malevolent eyes narrowed before snapping to Jordan. Not waiting to see what it'd do, the woman pulled out her Katana, clutching it with both hands and ran at the Uruk-hai; quicker than she believed it was capable of moving, it threw the star. Her shoulder jerked back with the force of the impact; ignoring the sharp pain in her shoulder, Jordan willed her left hand to tighten its slackening grip on the blade as it flashed once, twice, leaving the Uruk without its forearms. The Uruk roared its pain and fury.

Unwilling to cede defeat, its thick leg lashed out, kicking Jordan in the gut. Caught off guard, she flew back, her katana clutched tightly in her right hand. Jordan's head thudded painfully against the hard ground; she stared up at the sky above, the wind knocked out of her. Unable to draw a full breath, she fought to remain calm against the rising panic.

_Mind over matter, Jordie . . _the woman could almost see Duncan's face, his dark eyes intense.

Hyperventilating, she struggled to her feet. Doubled over, clutching her abdomen, Jordan straightened with difficulty. She glared at the Uruk-hai, who was striding towards her, ready to give her another kick. This time she was ready. Mentally blocking the throbbing pain in her gut, somewhere from deep within her, Jordan summoned the energy to execute a spin kick, planting her heel in its face - - quite a feat, considering the disparity in height between the combatants. The Uruk dropped heavily to the ground.

"I guess you won't be doing that again, will you?" she said in a harsh whisper, looking down at the creature; it rolled onto its side, struggling to stand.

"You will die!" the Uruk sneered at her over its shoulder.

"Not today. I have other plans." She replied. The Immortal kicked him in the gut; the Uruk merely laughed at her.

Jordan kicked him harder in the ribs. This time, the Uruk flipped onto its back, panting. She planted her boot in its chest, holding it firmly in place. The Uruk's bleeding arm stumps beat impotently against her leg, his lower body writhing in an effort to dislodge her.

"Let me up and I may let you live!" the Uruk demanded. Jordan gave a bark of laughter at his ludicrous words.

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" Jordan said sweetly, drawing the tip her Katana slowly across its exposed throat. His next words were lost in a wet gurgle.

Jordan watched indifferently while the Uruk's life ebbed away; it took a few moments for her to realize the din of battle was dying. Although the fight seemed to last a lifetime, in reality it must have been a few minutes, she realized. A sharp, throbbing pain caught her attention. Looking down, the shuriken thrown by the Uruk was buried deep in her left shoulder. Though her vest covered the growing bloodstain, she felt the spreading, sticky wetness beneath. Making her way to a tree, the woman leaned heavily against it. Swallowing hard, Jordan gingerly grasped the star, wincing at the pain it elicited. Gritting her teeth, she counted to three and quickly pulled it out, biting her tongue to stifle her scream of pain.

"Damn that hurt!" she muttered aloud, looking at the blood stained star. Breathing heavily, Jordan winced, and gently probed the wound before taking a peek beneath her vest; already her Quickening had stopped the bleeding; unfortunately, this wound was too deep for it to heal instantaneously; it'd be at least several hours for it to fully heal.

_I should've taken more heads._ She thought wearily.

Experimentally, Jordan moved her arm. Now that the crisis was over, the aches were manifesting themselves. Jordan was able to raise her arm halfway before the pain stole her breath away. Favoring her injured shoulder, she pushed away from the tree and straightened cautiously. With her right hand, Jordan curled the fingers of her left hand around the hilt of her Katana.

Breathing heavily, she looked around her; Elves were putting the creatures that hadn't yet expired out of their misery; some were helping those with minor injuries to walk. Other Elf Warriors were retrieving arrows and wiping their soiled weapons, their dead placed on litters constructed of tree limbs, whose branches were interwoven to support their burdens, then borne away by able-bodied Elves.

Numbly, the Immortal walked to the tree, surveying the damage. Her overcoat was in a sorry state. Streaked with grass and sweat stains, dirt and Orc blood, the once sumptuous, flowing designer fabric was now pierced through with arrows; the Immortal could see the tree bark thru the long, gaping tears. Jordan sighed. Gimli's small throwing axe was embedded in the tree as well, her unraveling braid dangling from an arrow. Angrily she yanked it out, releasing it; holding the severed locks in her hand, she measured the loss of twelve inches of hair, before tucking it inside her vest; she ran her hand absently thru her shortened hair, shaking it lightly; twigs, leaves and dirt rained down; her hair now reached the middle of her shoulder blade.

_It'll grow back. As for the Armani…maybe the Elves can repair it_ So absorbed in her thoughts, Jordan didn't notice Gimli stood by her side until he spoke.

"At least you're still alive, Lassie." The Dwarf said gruffly.

"Couldn't you have aimed closer to the arrow, Gimli?" The Dwarf looked at her with an incredulous expression. The twitching of her Jordan's lips gave away the laughter she now felt inside, glad the Elven casualties weren't numerous; it could have been worse.

"I needed a hair cut anyways, it was getting too long." After a look of surprise at her change in mood, Gimli gave a shout of laughter; Jordan joined him, tears streaming from her eyes, as Legolas appeared before her.

Backtracking from River Loudwater, Legolas and the other scouts regrouped, en route to the outskirts of Rivendell. Surely the Valar had smiled down on them, for their mission was a success. Under cover of night, they had sighted several parties of both Orc and Uruk-Hai Scouts, eliminating them with ruthless efficiency, no easy feat considering the Orcs were creatures of the night; other groups were monitored and tracked, allowed to move closer to the Elven haven. As the night turned into day, the Elf scouts slipped quietly thru the foliage, keeping pace with their quarry, tightening the net. The group they were currently shadowing was at least eighty strong; when the time was right, the trap was sprung. Arrows rained down on the fell creatures; Legolas estimated fifty managed to escape, and were heading towards the ground team. Two scouts ran ahead to warn them, the rest continuing to mete out death. Knowing Gimli would not let harm come to Jordan, he and the other Elves continued with their grim task. After ensuring none were alive, they swiftly made their way towards the ground team, who were on the verge of being overwhelmed. As the Valar would have it, their timing was perfect. He spotted Gimli with Elves at his back, holding their own. Legolas' concern grew for Jordan.

_Where is she?! _

His sharp eyes searched the combatants until he saw her slender form dart out and drag an injured Elf towards a clump of bushes, his arrows picking off Orcs that posed a threat to the rescue attempt. Momentarily out of arrows, his face drained of color as he saw an Uruk making it's way toward her, a spear poised. Running in the trees towards her, his knives ready to throw, he saw Jordan kill the Uruk with her shurikens, then the creature was pierced with an arrow, from Elves in the trees above, providing protection for her and the wounded one.

The Mirkwood Elf needed to replenish his quiver quickly. Landing lightly on the ground, he swiftly gathered arrows from the dead on the forest floor, killing Orcs and Uruks that dare move in her direction. Legolas lost sight of Jordan when she darted off in another direction. He continued to work his way towards where he saw her last, his progress delayed by several Elves needing his swift and deadly assistance. Legolas was momentarily engaged with three Orcs when he heard Gimli shout in warning to her. Hurriedly killing his foes, he continued towards her; what he saw next almost made his heart stop. Jordan was pinned to a tree by arrows, a large Uruk scout advancing upon her.

_Nooo!_

Horrified, he sprinted towards them when he saw Jordan on the ground. She leapt to her feet, her sword drawn, then suddenly, the Uruk's forearms fell to the ground, but not before he kicked her away. A white-hot rage overcame him. However, retribution was not his to give. Jordan staggered to her feet, the Uruk was about to put his boot in her again, when the woman executed a most extraordinary kick before pinning the creature to the ground. Legolas came to a halt on the periphery, far enough to be unnoticed, close enough to let fly an arrow.

Legolas looked on as Jordan slowly drew her sword across its throat, watching her watch the Uruk bleed to death before she stumbled away to lean heavily against a tree. Something niggled at the back of the Elf's mind. An assassin himself, he killed when necessary, most times without compunction. To see this woman do the same, gave him gave him more than a slight pause. This Daughter of Man is more than a Shield Maiden; that she is able to suffer the physical and mental demands of combat . . . to receive the same physical punishment Men and even Elf kind regularly endure in a battle . . . and walk away virtually unharmed is quite extraordinary. Already the battle was over, the forest eerily silent, save for the squeals and coughs of Orcs and Uruk-Hai in their death throes. Gimli was at Jordan's side, and Legolas went to join them, questions swirling in his mind.

Legolas quickly clasped the Dwarf's shoulder in greeting and relief at his safety. Turning to the woman, Legolas gently but firmly gripped her chin in his smooth fingers, inspecting her face. Despite the deep scrapes on her cheek, forehead chin and nose, the dirt and Orc blood smeared on her face, she never looked more beautiful to him. Releasing her, he stepped back; the Elf's eyes surveyed the scene: Jordan's dirty, tired face, the partially dismembered Uruk; his sapphire gaze settled on her overcoat hanging on the tree.

Legolas' eyes narrowed as he took in the sizeable, open gash on her left upper arm. When he reached to examine the wound on her shoulder, Jordan twisted away.

"Its just a flesh wound." She said, keeping her tone light, avoiding his piercing gaze.

"Tis more than that, Jordan." Legolas said quietly. Jordan blinked. Did nothing escape this Elf?

Jordan's eyes widened in surprise when Legolas placed his hands on her shoulders, biting back her yelp of pain at his touch; he turned her this way and that, ignoring her indignant protests as his hands roamed over every inch of her body, checking for other injuries. The Dwarf raised an eyebrow, discretely coughing and smiling behind his gloved hand. Satisfied with his inspection, Legolas stepped back.

"Are you quite done?" she asked indignantly, hoping to distract him.

Jordan's chin lifted slightly, doing her best to sound haughty. Legolas said nothing; instead, the Elf's bright eyes slid down her body; he noticed she was careful to keep her right side towards him. Without her outer garb, Jordan's clothes left nothing of her form to the imagination. Her white under tunic was molded to the swell of the woman's bosom and waist by a form fitting leather bodice; rough black leggings revealed all contours of her legs, hugged the gentle flare of her hip and accentuated Jordan's nicely rounded backside. The Wood Elf was not pleased to see how her leggings clung to her shapely calves before disappearing into her knee length boots. A peculiar expression crossed his face. He frowned, a surge of possessiveness welled up. Legolas certainly did not wish others to see so freely her slender hourglass shape as well. Unbuckling his quiver and knives, Legolas shrugged them off and thrust them into an unsuspecting Gimli's hands, then leaned his tall bow against the startled Elf-Friend. The Elf unclasped his cloak, removed it from his shoulders and settled it around Jordan's shoulders, arranging the folds to completely cover her before fastening the clasp at her neck. The Elf ignored Jordan's questioning gaze. Legolas looked at her, his head cocked to the side as he finished his inspection of her. Oddly, the right side of her hair was still braided, but the left side had come undone and was noticeably shorter than the other.

"What happened to your hair?" Legolas asked. Jordan and Gimli looked at each other before bursting into laughter at the Elf's puzzled expression.

Legolas paused, listening; excusing himself from the Dwarf, he walked to Jordan, who was sitting on the ground, her back against a tree. Wordlessly, he handed her the small bundle. She accepted it with a smile of thanks. Looking inside, her stars lay, crushed and twisted beyond recognition. Jordan stuffed it into her mangled overcoat's pocket, not having the energy to deal with it. Instead, she studied the Elf, who was quietly conversing with Gimli. Judging from his relaxed posture, Jordan could tell he wasn't expecting trouble. The muffled thunder of hoof beats could be heard. Riding bareback, several Elf scouts had returned with spare horses in tow; among them was Legolas' noble steed. Spying his Elven master, Arod trotted to his side, tossing his mane and neighing in greeting.

"Did you train him to do that?" she asked.

"Arod permits me to ride him because he is my friend." Legolas explained, extending his hand to her; taking hold of the Fair Elf's hand, Jordan allowed him to pull her to her feet.

For once, Jordan was glad to ride a horse. She just wasn't up to the long walk back to Rivendell. Mindful of her injuries, Legolas gently lifted Jordan upon Arod, before helping Gimli up on a brown gelding, and securing the reins to Arod. The other Elves had doubled up, and were quickly borne away by their steeds. Gracefully leaping up behind Jordan, the Elf settled himself and gathered the reins; he spoke softly to the horse. Arod tossed his head and took off in a smooth canter.

Riding along beside them, Gimli recounted his part in the battle, filling Legolas in on the events he missed; the Dwarf added thirteen kills to his total. The Elf obligingly made all the correct responses, and asked several strategic questions, all of which had the Dwarf chattering incessantly. Jordan sagged; her shoulder throbbed, and she could feel the many cuts, scrapes and bruises.

"Lean back against me, Melamin." Legolas murmured in her ear. Gratefully, Jordan did; she was beyond caring. Never mind the Elf was neat and clean while she looked like she took a dirt bath.

"Why do you call me that?"

"Why not? Sooner or later you will accept it. It is inevitable."

"You're sure of yourself, aren't you?" In answer, Legolas kissed Jordan softly behind her right ear, and gave her a gentle squeeze, chuckling at her involuntary shiver of delight.

The battle weary group rode silently back to the Homely House; Legolas could feel the tension and impatience radiating from her. Knowing she wished to see how the injured fared, Legolas untied Gimli's mount in the main courtyard and helped his friend dismount.

"Go on with you, Lad – take her to the House, she'll be needing a bandage or two." Gimli said, waving the pair away.

"Gee, Gimli, I didn't know you cared!" she teased. The Dwarf's ruddy face reddened slightly. Jordan smiled before blowing the Dwarf a kiss.

The Elf leapt again onto Arod's back, taking an alternate path leading directly to the House of Healing. As they neared, Jordan eyed the stairway with dismay. She wasn't looking forward to the climb. Legolas' grip around her waist tightened a notch then loosened immediately as she sucked her breath in. Her midsection still ached from the Uruk's kick.

"My apologies, Melamin." He said, nuzzling her neck.

"I guess you'll have to make it up to me." She said; the words were gone before she could stop them.

"I intend to."

Legolas spoke to Arod, and to her surprise, the horse mounted the stone steps, his hooves clattering loudly. Jordan was convinced Legolas was going ride the horse into the House itself, when – to her relief – they stopped at the great arched entry.

"I shall wait for you, Melamin." The Elf said. Jordan was starting to get used to the endearment. She liked it.

"No, please – do what you need to do. I'll be fine. Really. And thank you." She said.

Grateful for his thoughtfulness, Jordan kissed the Elf's cheek as he helped her down. Legolas held her gently fast, his mouth capturing hers; the possessive, almost rough quality of his kiss was tinged with an edge of desperate relief that left her breathless.

"This will do for now." He murmured.

Jordan wanted more than anything to remain in his arms, to see where the kiss would lead, but she needed to know how Camthalion and Maeglin were doing. Reluctantly, Legolas released her; he watched as she made her way inside, his cloak billowing out behind her. Inside, the House was a blur of activity; workers tended the wounded as their kin waited impatiently in the hallways. Thankfully, there were many with minor wounds. Standing off to the side, Jordan's eyes searched for the Elves she aided. Stopping an Apprentice, Jordan asked after them and was directed to an inner sanctum. Lingering in the doorway out of sight, Jordan looked on in amazement. Certain their conditions were grim at best, the sight that greeted her eyes was welcome indeed. Maeglin and Camthalion were sitting up in their cots, laughing and talking with their kin and friends by their sides. Seeing them well and in good spirits was enough for her.

_W__onders never cease in Rivendell _ Jordan said as she smiled to herself. Turning, she quietly left. Running into Laurenthail on her way out, she stopped the Healer and asked about their conditions.

"Jordan, I'm pleased to see you—you are hurt. Come, I will tend your wounds." The Healer's sharp eyes traveled slowly over the Immortal's face, then went to her shoulder and arm.

"I'll take care of it. It's just a scratch. Really. I'm okay." Jordan said. The she-Elf held Jordan by her shoulders.

"What happened to your hair?" Smiling at Læurenthail's puzzled glance, Jordan replied.

"It's a long story. I'll tell you later. How are Maeglin and Camthalion? Will they be okay?"

After answering her anxious questions and assuring Jordan they were quite comfortable and were expected to make a speedy recovery, Læurenthail excused herself to supervise the apprentices tending to the injured. Jordan's steps and heart were lighter as she made her way out. Læurenthail watched her leave, a puzzled expression on the lovely she-Elf's face as she saw Jordan's hair from the back.


	15. Reflections

Once in her quarters, Jordan shut the door and wearily leaned against it, her eyes closed. She was so tired and her body ached all over. Forcing herself to move forward, Jordan barely noticed the cheerful fire in the hearth; instead, her eyes were drawn to a large, silver tray set on a nearby table. The woman draped her tattered overcoat across a high backed chair and placed her weapons at the opposite end, admiring the etched surface of the domed lid. Laying a hand against the gleaming silver, it felt very warm to the touch. Swaying on her feet, Jordan shook herself awake, summoning the strength to raise the heavy lid, hoping sustenance lay beneath it; she wasn't disappointed.

Inside was a large tureen containing a hearty stew; the tantalizing aroma wafting upwards made her mouth water and her stomach rumble loudly. Unwrapping a linen covered lump, beneath lay a loaf of warm, crusty bread; honeyed nuts, assorted hard and soft cheeses, fresh fruit, and the ubiquitous Lembas completed the offering. Despite her hunger, Jordan carefully replaced the lid.

Unclasping Legolas' cloak, she rubbed her face against it before burying her face in the soft material, breathing in the woodsy, clean scent, wondering if his skin smelled the same. How thoughtful of him to lend it to her, after seeing the condition of her overcoat. Jordan opened her armoire and carefully hung it up before removing her cleaning kit. Jordan turned her attention to her weapons. The Immortal wiped her sticks free of dirt and Orc blood and checked the locking mechanism, frowning at the nicks and dents marring the polished surface. Unsheathing her Katana, she laid it on the table and stared at it.

_: : : : Mt. Fuji, Japan_

_1947_

_ After the long return trek down the mountain, the Highlander and his Student returned to the village, to the samurai mansion owned by Duncan's good friend, Tsukino Nagayoshi. Weeping cherry trees lined the courtyard, filling the open area with their delicate, fragrant blossoms. The Immortals sat side by side, Duncan's weapons lay on the table before them, as well as two identical kiri, or wooden boxes; Jordan reached for the shorter sword, but snatched her hand back after the Highlander gave her a sharp, stinging slap when her fingers almost touched the blade. Rubbing her hand, Jordan gave him a surprised, hurt look._

"_Never handle it by the blade, Jordie. Respect it, and it will take care of you."_

"_You didn't have to hit me." She said, sulking._

"_I didn't. It was a gentle reminder. Believe me, you wouldn't know if I had." He answered. _

"_Our weapons are connected to us. The 'hows' and 'why's' I'm not certain of. What I am certain, is that when _

_you truly understand your sword, it becomes a part of you. "_

"_What do you mean?" she asked._

"_Where ordinary weapons are susceptible to damage, yours won't be, although there have been instances when_

_an Immortal has broken the weapon of another during a Challenge; think of it as a measure of your will and strength, for when you receive a Quickening, it infuses your sword with strength as well. But that doesn't mean you should neglect its care. Just like your skills, to remain effective, you must maintain it. Care for it as you would yourself. Now you learn how to clean a sword."_

_ Duncan removed the contents of his kiri, instructing Jordan to do the same. Placing the Tanto, the shorter of the two swords before her, the Highlander lifted his Dragon Head Katana and pointed to the wooden box._

_ "This is your cleaning kit; it'd be a good idea to carry one with you at all times. I have several, 'cause you never know when you'll need it. Remove the blade from the hilt with this tool, the mekugu-nuki." The Highlander selected a balled spike from the array of tools, removing his blade with ease. Watching her Teacher intently, Jordan picked hers up and fumbled several times before managing to separate the tang from the hilt. Duncan watched with patient amusement._

_ "Take the abura-nuguishi; we'll do the preliminary cleaning with this paper. Wipe from the bottom up – not too hard, now! Be careful to not put pressure on the tip" Jordan copied the Highlander's wiping motion as best she could. The Highlander held up a stick with a padded ball on the end. _

"_Clean the blade with the uchiko, the whetstone powder." The Highlander patted the blade with the ball _

_uniformly from the base to the tip, then turned it over and did the same from tip to base. _

"_Now we wipe the uchiko and old oil off with the nugui-agami before returning the tang – by itself - to the _

_scabbard." The Highlander held up a piece of thick, wrinkled paper and expertly wiped the blade clean. _

"_Saki for your thoughts." _

"_I don't think I'll ever get it right."_

"_Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it." He reassured her, soaking a different piece of paper in clove oil._

"_Now for the finishing touch – a thin coat of Choji." The Highlander carefully slid the tang out of the scabbard _

_and applied a thin, even coat of oil with the abura-nuguishi. Jordan copied him._

"_How'd I do?" she asked._

"_Not bad for a beginner. You just need to get the technique down; and here's your chance." Duncan said, _

_moving his weapons to one side. _

_Jordan followed the direction of his gaze. With a slight nod of his head, three female servants came forward, _

_two had their arms filled with swords and daggers, the third bore a tray laden with tea, and rice crackers. Drawing near, they bowed respectfully._

"_Arigatougozaimasu (thank you)." Duncan said as they laid them down before Jordan. _

"_Douitashimashite__(you are welcome), Duncan-San." the servants bowed again before they left, giggling softly, _

_they threw shy smiles over their shoulders. The Highlander looked after them, a big grin on his handsome face. Open-mouthed, Jordan could only stare at the pile before her._

"_But - "_

_ "But nothing. I suggest you get started. Don't worry, I'll be right here, watching you." Duncan poured himself a cup of hot, steaming tea. Jordan reached for the longest sword in the pile. Unsheathing it, she glared at her Teacher._

"_Don't even think about it, Jordie." Duncan said, unconcerned as he sipped his tea._

_She reached for the mekugu-nuki instead. : : : : _

Jordan smiled at the memory as she cleaned, oiled and reassembled her blade. Returning it to its scabbard, she reached for her overcoat, extracting the bundle from the pocket. Unwrapping it, her smile vanished as she studied the distorted shuriken. Eight were beyond recognition, four were intact, and all but one was stained with dark blood; of the four, one had both reddish-brown and black blood.

Carefully, she cleaned the intact stars, before attempting to salvage the rest, managing to not slice her fingers open to the bone on the sharp, twisted metal. It was a daunting task, but she had to try. Tiny sparks danced about her hands as her Quickening instantly healed the superficial cuts on her fingertips. With a curse, she gave up.

The Uruk was thorough in its destruction; the Orcs and Uruks got their posthumous revenge, for their tarry blood

appeared to have a corrosive quality. Studying the areas she did manage to clean, Jordan could see the pitting in the metal; it was especially bad where the dark blood had pooled. Resigned to the loss, Jordan secured the four remaining stars to the leather sash; the rest she placed in a small woven basket. Sighing, Jordan buried her head in her hands. The day's events were starting to catch up with her; weariness had long set in, making her very bones feel like lead. Pushing herself to her feet, Jordan was glad to find the pitcher on the dresser filled with fresh water. Using the washbasin, Jordan cleaned her hands and face. Walking to the table, the Immortal raised the heavy lid with her good arm. There was enough stew to feed four; she ladled out a generous bowlful and settled down to eat.

Lifting a spoon, Jordan halfheartedly dug into the stew, chewing slowly as she ate; the delicious taste brought a smile to her face in appreciation of the hot meal. Sopping up the thick, savory broth with bread, Jordan's mind was blank. Her hunger finally sated, she sat back in the chair, and gave a loud, satisfied burp. The Immortal contemplated collapsing in the bed as she was, but decided against it; looking out the window, the full moon had begun its ascent into the night sky.

With a sigh, Jordan climbed to her feet. Slowly stripping to the skin, she winced as she peeled away her shirt; the throbbing pain had reduced to a dull ache. Experimentally, she rolled her shoulder and raised her arm; Jordan now had full range of motion, though the healing was incomplete. She estimated it would be at least another hour till she was as good as new. Neatly folding her clothes, she placed them on the chair nearest the door. Jordan pulled on a robe, cinching it at the waist and gathered another robe, her sleeping shift and toiletries, then made her way to the bathing room.

Slipping into the warm water, Jordan swam to the deepest part of the pool and sank slowly beneath the surface; exhaling, a steady stream of bubbles marked her location, and then disappeared. The surface of the pool became calm and serene once more, the soothing sonance of the fountain the only sound in the empty room. Lying on the pool's floor, the Immortal remained submerged for a long while, her hair swirling above and around her in a dark cloud; the woman's tired limbs were weightless, buoyed by the water, as it gently cradled her body in its soothing embrace, her mind willfully blank. Feeling a bit rested, the Immortal sat up; pushing her swirling hair back, the woman crouched down, and then pushed off from the bottom of the pool, propelling herself upwards. Breaking the surface with a large splash, Jordan slicked her hair back and waded to the edge; turning, she sat on a low step, slouching down till the water came to her neck; she laid her head back on the ledge, letting the swirling, warm water massage and soothe her sore body.

Picking up a sea sponge, she reached for a scented bar of soap and lathered up, washing away the dirt and sweat of battle. Inspecting her left bicep, all that remained of the deep gash from the Uruk-hai's arrow was a thin, pink line; even as she watched, the sparks of Quickening appeared, leaving her skin whole. The superficial scratches on her face had healed as well, the scabs scrubbed away, leaving behind smooth, unmarred flesh. Probing her cheek, the deep scrapes from the Orc's slap had almost fully healed; she could feel the thin lines with her fingertips. Not much longer for that to completely heal, either.

Jordan's thoughts returned to the recent battle. Elves may be beautiful, but they certainly can be deadly as well, she mused. Not wanting to remember the recent carnage, nor the hideous visages of the Orcs and Uruk-hai, her thoughts turned to Legolas; despite the warm waters, she shivered, remembering his kisses and the feel of his hands on her face. And body. Where exactly were these feelings going?

_What do I feel for him?_ She asked herself. It was too confusing.

Whether they were talking, or sitting in silence, Jordan was happy to be with him. His mere presence assured her that everything would be fine. The physical attraction she felt for him was undeniable, yet there was something more—a feeling of…belonging. The Elf was dangerous. The feelings he evoked from her more so, for in his company, home and Duncan felt to be more a distant memory, not her reality. Disturbed, she banished the thought from her mind, willing it to be blank as she finished her bath.

Returning to her room, Jordan brushed her hair dry before the fire; comparing the uneven ends in the mirror, the Immortal decided she preferred the shorter length, liking the way it blended in with the shorter layers of her hair, the ends curling up slightly. Making a face at herself, she decided to deal with her hair in the morning. Despite her bath, and her weariness, the woman was unable to sleep, her mind too alert. Restless, she stepped onto the balcony. The soft night breeze brought the sound of ethereal voices singing, the haunting melody struck a chord within her, awakening a longing that she didn't understand and couldn't name.

Toying with the leaf at her neck, Jordan felt inexplicably alone; she did her good deed. Surely helping rid Middle Earth of a few Orcs would be payment to the powers that be, and she'd return home. Home. Where was home? Did she still exist, or was she simply . . . erased? Did she truly want to return - return to the same routine of work and quality time with a book? Aside from Duncan and Joe, there was nothing. Just thinking about it made her head hurt; it took too much effort. Her thoughts turned to her co-workers, wondering what they were doing, if they noticed her absence. Was she missed?

Through the years, she had had boyfriends, but her relationships never lasted more than a year, two at the most; always, there was a restlessness that would surface, a feeling there was someone out there she was meant for. Immortality gave her the luxury of time, but it didn't fill the void, nor did it quell the sense that something was missing; so far, no one inspired her to share her heart or her body with her past boyfriends and dates, although they certainly did try to persuade her otherwise. Jordan thought about the past and her parents. After her Immortality had been triggered, her past was all she had left to cling to, that defined and anchored her—that and Duncan, those first tumultuous years she learned the Game. And it was because of her love for her parents that she clung to her (by today's standards) out dated upbringing.

Raised and groomed to be the perfect socialite; her mother also strove to ingrain within her daughter a strong sense of self-respect and duty to the strict social mores of that time, always admonishing her to not cause the family to 'lose face'; her father, on the other hand, was ahead of his time, a true renaissance man. When Jordan came along, nothing was too good for her. As she grew older, he insisted his daughter be educated as any male would be. Garret Waters was determined to nurture within his only child a sense of independence and confidence-much to her mother's chagrin.

Late at night, she would sneak out of bed and sit on the stairs, watching them thru the rails; her father would put a record on the phonograph and dance with her mother. Sometimes she could overhear their conversations, her mother fretting to her father that their only child would never find a man of 'proper' means who would be willing to marry their daughter because of her headstrong ways and unconventional ideas. Her father would snort and reply that no man would then be worthy of his little jewel. She was delighted to see her father sweep her mother up in a tender embrace, silencing her mother's protests with a loving kiss. Jordan wanted the kind of love shared by her parents. And now that she was Immortal, she was willing to wait. Actually, she had come close, once . . . Jordan shoved those thoughts aside; she didn't like to dwell on the unpleasant memories.

Immortality definitely had its advantages. Not subject to the diseases - - sexual or otherwise - - that ravaged the mortal population, Jordan was certainly free to live any lifestyle she wanted or take as many lovers as often as she wished, but she wanted something more than an empty, casual encounter, no matter how physically satisfying it may be. She often teased Duncan about his many conquests, but it appeared that even the Highlander had become selective of late as to who he shared pleasure with, especially after the loss of Tessa. It was astonishing to see how a dead woman could still hold a man's heart. Jordan's lips tightened. She knew that only too well.

The numerous offers for blind dates by well meaning acquaintances and coworkers eventually decreased till virtually no

one was interested in trying to fix her up. That suited her just fine. Except her best friend, Collette wouldn't hear of it. Dear Collette; she was forever trying to fix her up on a blind date. The irrepressible blonde was relentless in her pursuit to see Jordan paired up with someone. She'd nag, bully and wheedle Jordan into a double date; the Immortal occasionally gave in, just to pacify her friend, and only because Collette took such a sincere, vested interest in her happiness.

There were times when she felt romance was overrated; it appeared true fulfillment could be found only in romance novels, where the heroes were perfect and the heroines lived happily ever after. Collette often teased her, informing her her standards were too high, and no man could be what she expected.

_But Legolas isn't a man _the small voice in her head whispered. She tried to ignore it.

_: : : "I don't understand you, Jordie. You're not gay -" Collette began one day._

"_Isn't the proper term 'a lesbian'?"_

"_Whatever – stop trying to change the subject. You love to fix other people's love lives, yet you don't want help with yours. You tell everyone else there's someone for everyone, but you won't give anyone a chance. What gives?"_

"_I'm complicated."_

"_Well, you'd better simplify yourself, 'cause you'll end up alone. Is that what you want?"_

"_What I want is for you to accept the fact that I like being single." Jordan said, gritting her teeth. Didn't they just have this conversation?_

"_You're going to end up an Old Maid! " Collette warned, exasperated when another blind date she arranged for Jordan complained of being stood up. _

"_How do you know I'm not an old soul trapped in a young body?" Jordan asked, teasing her friend._

"_Look—all I'm saying is that before that young body becomes an old body to match that old soul, you're entitled to a little fun before you die – you're only young once! No one lives forever. " _

_If you only knew, Col . . . : : : _

Leaning against the stone balcony, Jordan stared out at eternity, contemplating forever.

The door swung noiselessly on its well-oiled hinges as Methos closed it softly; his eyes adjusted to the dark room. The furnishings were thrown into sharp relief by the moonlight streaming in thru the large picture windows. Making his way to Duncan's desk, Methos sat before the computer. Everything was state of the art—nothing but the best available technology would do for the Highlander. At a touch, the computer sprang to life with a quiet whirr; the hard drive softly chirped, lights winked as it went thru its self-test. Methos accessed the Internet; logging onto the application he needed, within seconds, the screen revealed his former student's visage, the resolution so clear that the Ancient could make out the different hues of blue in the painting that hung on the wall behind his friend. Despite holding the title as the second oldest living Immortal, Caine Spencer appeared to be in his early 20's

"Marriage agrees with you." Methos said. "Is Meredith home?" he inquired.

"No—she's out shopping. A sale at Harrod's or something like that. I'm minding the roost. I take it this isn't a social call. What's up?" Caine' crossed his arms behind his head.

"MacLeod's on a mission."

"Isn't he always? How is the bugger?" Caine asked. Methos' image shrugged non-committedly.

"Ah well. I take it he's still upset with me; we haven't spoken since 1993."

"He certainly can hold a grudge, eh?" Methos said, amused. Caine smiled wryly, recalling his run in with the Immortal Kalas, how he taunted him using Duncan's name and an impressive Scottish brogue. It almost cost him his head.

"That wasn't very smart." Methos said; a smile on his patrician face gave away his delight at the prank. Too bad he didn't think of it first. Then again, he and Duncan hadn't met.

"Maybe not, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Either way, Duncan won; I heard he took Kalas' head a year later."

"He did us all a favor." Methos said. In the screen, Caine agreed.

"Anyways. What's Duncan's mission?"

"He's searching for someone; he. . . 'lost' a friend."

"I'm not sure I follow; he 'lost' someone as in….?" 

"Vanished."

"Is he certain it wasn't by choice?"

"He doesn't seem to think so."

"That's too bad; anyone I know?"

"Jordan Waters. Do you know her?"

"No. Tell me why I should care."

"Because you've never shied away from a just cause. Think of it as a belated penance for sending Kalas after MacLeod." Caine said nothing. Methos knew he'd hit pay dirt.

"Are you still writing?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"What about?" 

"Oh, A little bit of everything."

"Tell me, have you ever done research on historical subjects—anything along the line of legend?

"Not lately; I do know someone who is interested in that sort of stuff. Why?"

"MacLeod had this box. He claims a friend gave it to Jordan. The best part is that is glows in the moonlight. The only time I've seen something similar was in Arthur's court."

"Hmmm. Interesting."

"This friend of yours-"

"I'll get the number and address for you."

Caine got up to retrieve the information; shortly, he reappeared in the screen again. A muffled sound caught Methos' attention. Turning back to the monitor, the Ancient one placed his finger against his lips. In the screen, Caine nodded once, and started scribbling on a piece of paper, he held it close to his webcam for the elder Immortal to read; Methos reached for a notepad and plucked a pen from its holder. He quickly copied the information before silently waving good-bye. Closing the screen, the Immortal resisted the inane urge to stand as the doorknob turned and bright lights flooded the room; Methos blinked in the sudden glare.

"Methos?" Duncan's muscular body filled the doorway, his Katana in hand.

"I thought I heard voices. Everything okay?" his dark gaze swept the room.

"Fine, fine. Couldn't sleep. I was just surfing the Internet. Sorry—didn't mean to wake you." Methos replied, looking properly apologetic.

"Oh. S'okay. I'm going back to bed." Stifling a yawn, the Highlander stretched, his sword flashing.

"Leave the lights off, please, MacLeod." Methos called.

Nodding, Duncan yawned as he shuffled out and shut the door behind him. Methos waited until the Highlander left before propping his feet on the desk. He read the name and address on the paper, a thoughtful frown on his face; sitting in the dark with a faraway look in his eyes, the Immortal watched the dark sky gradually give way to the gray light of dawn.

Methos pulled the zipper of his carry-on closed, securing it with a tiny padlock. With a last look around the room, the Ancient One was satisfied he left nothing behind.

Things were not looking good. A month had passed with no sign of or word from Jordan. Clinging to the hope that she was out there somewhere, secretly, the Highlander was starting to despair. Out on the balcony, Duncan sat in a lounge chair. Grabbing a six-pack of beer from the fridge, Methos went to join his friend.

Popping the tab on the can, Methos stole a quick glance at his brooding friend. Nudging Duncan with his foot, Methos held the beer out for him. Absently, the younger Immortal took it. Opening up his own can, Methos took a long pull, relishing the unique taste of the brew and waited in companionable silence. Duncan didn't disappoint.

"I don't get it. Vanished. It's like she literally dropped off the face of the earth." Duncan said.

Methos arched an eyebrow; the Highlander was taking her disappearance hard; perhaps harder than Connor's loss. . . as if there was something to prove. To whom? To himself? To her? Methos took another swig from his can.

"C'mon, MacLeod; Joe's on it, and so are the police. What you need to do is take a step back. Get your bearings. You're too close."

"How can you be so blasé about it?" Duncan said angrily.

" 'Blasé'? who said I was? I know what its like to lose somebody. We all do. At least you know there's hope. There wasn't for - " Methos broke off, his nostrils flaring in anger. He calmed himself.

"Look at it this way, MacLeod: no news is good news. Before we cross swords, hear me out. As of this moment – Joe said there'd been no confirmation of her death – if there was, you'd _feel_ her death – yes? And we know that if a mortal killed her, she'll eventually be okay. You are her Teacher, so that makes her capable of taking care of herself – yes? You didn't find Connor overnight, and it looks to be the same way with Jordan. Like it or not, you're going to have to wait. In the meantime, you've done everything you possibly can. You'll find her. We'll find her."

Duncan sighed and stood up. He knew his friend was right, but it didn't seem to matter. Jordie was still missing. Duncan poured his beer in the flowerpot. He wasn't thirsty.

"That, my friend, is a sin of epic proportions. You do not waste beer. Ever." Methos said, half serious. Duncan looked at him. Methos gave him a sardonic grin. He followed the younger Immortal into the loft.

"Just trying to lighten the mood, MacLeod. Let's get out of here and check on Joe." Methos suggested.

"Maybe you're right. I could use a break. Let me grab my wallet." Duncan said.

"I suggest extra clothes and your passport, as well." Methos sauntered to the refrigerator and removed a bottle of German beer. Twisting the top off, he tilted his head back, letting the dark, bitter brew slide down his throat. Delicious. He walked around the kitchen counter and took a seat at a barstool.

"Why?"

"Because, MacLeod," Methos spoke slowly, as if talking to a child "Joe is in Paris."

"He is?"

"He is."

"He didn't tell me that."

"It's a free country. You'd better start packing."

"And you think we'll catch a flight there just like that?" Duncan snapped his fingers.

"I know we'll catch a flight, 'cause it's going to leave in. . . " Methos glanced at his watch " . . . an hour."

"How'd you manage that?" Duncan asked.

"I booked the Concorde." The Ancient One struggled to keep a straight face.

"I thought Adam Pierson couldn't afford it." Duncan's brows drew together; he had a feeling something wasn't quite right.

"You're absolutely right. But you can." Methos grinned.

"What?!" Duncan couldn't believe his ears. Then again, he shouldn't be surprised. The Old Man had a habit of pulling this kind of stunt, and usually at the Highlander's financial expense.

"Come on MacLeod; forty five minutes left. The cab will be here in ten."

"If I paid for it, the damned plane can wait for me!" the Highlander snapped, grumbling as he went to pack.

Methos' grin faded as soon as the Highlander was out of sight. The Ancient One refused to second-guess himself. He took another pull of his beer. Ten minutes later, the Immortals were ready, bags in hand. Walking to the closet, Methos reached for his overcoat and tossed the Highlander his. Picking up his bags, Duncan followed his friend out, shutting the door firmly behind him.


	16. The Eye of The Beholder

The terminal blurred, trees became a streak of green as the powerful engines thrust the Concorde upward. Its long, needle shaped nose sliced thru the air as it soared into the clear blue sky. The G-Force during take off pressed the Immortals deeper into the fine leather seats as the jet climbed higher and higher. Looking out the window, Methos watched the ground rapidly fall away; soon the landscape below resembled a colorful patchwork quilt. Transitioning to supersonic speed, the Concorde's sleek silhouette hurtled through the skies at Mach 2- twice the speed of sound - reaching an altitude over 11 miles high. So high, in fact, the Immortals were able to see the curvature of the earth below. Popping a chocolate covered blueberry in his mouth, the Ancient chewed thoughtfully before turning to his friend.

"You know, MacLeod; this is the only way to travel."

"What—free?" came the churlish reply.

The Highlander glared at the Ancient One from behind the morning issue of Le Parisien; following the headlines, Duncan turned to the next page, snapping his newspaper sharply to emphasize his displeasure.

"Is there any other way?" Methos asked, nonplussed as he leaned back in his chair and grinned; the younger Immortal's ire did not impress him. Besides, he'd make it up to the Highlander.

"Are you done with the sports section?" Methos inquired, giving the Chieftain's son his most innocent smile.

Duncan gave his friend the evil eye as he handed over the requested section. Inside the luxuriously appointed cabin, as they winged towards their destination, the Highlander and the Ancient One enjoyed beluga caviar, sparkling pink champagne on ice and a sumptuous lunch, all served by a very attractive, very buxom flight attendant. Lifting his champagne flute, Methos proposed a toast.

"Here's to success." The Ancient One said cryptically.

Duncan raised a dark brow at that but said nothing, mistaking the Eldest's meaning of 'success' regarding the securing of some very hard to get seats on the Concorde. Though he could more than afford their very expensive flight, the Highlander was not looking forward to the pending bill. He did not become independently wealthy by spending his wisely invested means foolishly. Still puzzled as to how the Elder Immortal managed to get his financial information - which he guarded vigilantly, though obviously not well enough, the Highlander allowed the loaded words to slip by unchallenged; instead, Duncan lifted his champagne flute. Clinking their flutes together, the crystal sang its pure, clear song as the Highlander rolled his eyes and took a sip. Soon, the stewardess' low, smooth voice filled the cabin.

"Nous sommes approchons notre descente finale dans l'aéroport d'Orly (we are approaching our final descent into Orly Airport). Veuillez attacher vos ceintures de sécurité, Messieurs (please fasten your seatbelts, sirs)."

The Immortals did as directed, each eagerly looking forward to their arrival for very different reasons. 

Orly Airport

Paris

Directly below the magnificent white bird's flight path, a continuous sonic boom heralded the Concorde's triumphant arrival into Parisian airspace. Touching down as smooth as velvet, the jet taxied down the runway, then slowed to a crawl before rolling to a barely perceptible stop. The flight attendant gave the Immortals a dazzling smile on her way to unseal the hatch.

"Helluva way to make an entrance, MacLeod," Methos commented as they stepped outside.

A uniformed porter waited for the Immortals at the bottom of the moveable footbridge to collect their bags, only to have his gloved hand stayed when he reached for their swords cases. Shrugging, the Frenchman muttered to himself as he rolled his cart away. Inside the terminal, the Immortals easily navigated their way through the hustle and bustle of anxious airline commuters hurrying to catch their connecting flights. Skirting the crowds of tourists milling about in confusion, Methos sauntered alongside the Highlander, who moved with the confidence of a proven warrior. As they waited their turn in the customs line, the Immortals' tall, dark figures caught many admiring female eyes and quite a few envious male glares.

"Se réjouir dans le festival, Monsieurs (enjoy yourselves at the Festival, sirs)." the official said, scrutinizing their passports. Properly tagged and stored, the Immortals and their swords had no trouble clearing customs.

"Merci," Methos replied.

The Ancient One exchanged wry glances with the Chieftain's Son, for directly across from them, a glossy poster on the wall announced the commencement of the annual Renaissance Festival. Making their way through the terminal, the Immortals joined the hordes of humanity at the luggage carousel, watching the seemingly endless pieces of luggage pass by on the conveyor belt.

"Have you ever wondered why we can walk into an international airport with weapons and not be detained?" Duncan asked. Methos shrugged.

"Why question it? Some things are meant to be, MacLeod. Just go with it," the elder Immortal answered. "Though I'd guess the fact our profiles don't appear in Interpol's data base must work in our favor."

"Ha. Ha. Ha," Duncan said, though he made no other comment; Perhaps some things should just be accepted for face value.

The duo quickly exited and made their way outside. Procuring a taxi, Methos leaned back and looked outside the window, enjoying the familiar sights. Undisputedly a beautiful city -despite being filled by Parisians - so much of Methos' past was intertwined with the venerable city's history . . . and what the Ancient One buried there continued to bind him to the charming megalopolis more securely than any physical bond could. Paris also held many memories for the Highlander - memories of happier times with Tessa and Richie. Methos'words broke Duncan's silent reverie.

"Now aren't you glad I booked the Concorde, MacLeod?" he asked, his tone smug.

"You're not the one getting the bill," the Highlander said dourly. "How'd you get my credit card information, anyways?" he added, suddenly suspicious.

"I have my ways." Methos replied softly.

Secretly, Duncan was indeed glad, for they'd made excellent time, arriving in Paris in less than three hours. Crossing the Pacific, according to the Parisian time zone, they'd arrived before even taking off. Closing his eyes, Duncan rested his head against the seat; the Immortal didn't need to see to know where they were going. He could feel the route, for it was familiar to him as the back of his hand. Duncan's anticipation grew as they drew near.

#

Port De La Tournelle

The 'Amadeus'

Duncan's Barge

Duncan opened his eyes as the taxi pulled rolled to a quick stop alongside the barge; with his heart pounding in his chest, the Highlander stared at his floating home. He barely heard their driver chattering away as he unloaded the trunk; absently, Duncan guessed he was from the West Indies or Haiti, for the driver's heavy accent gave his French a sing song quality.

"Don't worry, MacLeod; the cab's on me." Methos said as he paid the driver and gave him a modest tip.

"You're a big spender, Old Man," Duncan tossed over his shoulder as he stepped out of the taxi. The Highlander already had one foot on the gangway.

"Just living within my means, MacLeod," Methos retorted good-naturedly. He shouldered his carry-on and hefted his suitcase. The Highlander laughed despite himself.

"Don't you mean my means?" Duncan clarified. The elder Immortal pretended to not hear.

Unlocking the cabin, the Highlander paused and looked around. It was as if he'd never left; his furniture was uncovered, everything in its appointed place, waiting for him. Touching the sun burst on the wall, Duncan wandered over to the ancient Japanese silk screen hanging between the portholes. All of Tessa's sculptures were exactly as she left them, as were her unfinished sketches. His eyes drifted to the bed; the Highlander closed his eyes and braced himself as bittersweet memories came rushing back, ghostly echoes of the past gaining strength, demanding to be heard: the sound of Tessa's soft voice . . . her laughter . . . her giggles and moans of pleasure as they made love . . . Duncan swore he could almost smell her perfume. It had to be his imagination.

Opening his eyes, the Highlander moved towards the couch and sat down. A green bandanna caught his eye; it once belonged to Richie. Duncan remembered the proud look on Richie's face when he brought home that awful bust of Napoleon as a 'barge warming' gift - the very same bust Tessa accidentally on purpose broke shortly after. Rising to his feet, Duncan's eyes settled on the chess set. The pieces were unmoved from the last game he'd played with Richie.

The Highlander attempted to instruct his gregarious Student the finer points and strategies of chess, encouraging the younger Immortal to exercise his mind. Unfortunately, Richie didn't bother to seriously learn the game. Instead, his focus was concentrated on making the acquaintances of the winsome young ladies in the city. A smile creased the Highlanders face, for in many ways, Richie reminded Duncan of himself, when he was more innocent. The chess set brought back yet more memories of another friend long gone. Studying the pieces, Duncan lifted the Knight, remembering the many sets he'd play in the Rectory with his good friend and mentor, Darius. He gently set down the wooden piece, his eyes flicking to his desk.

Striding to the desk, Duncan stepped onto the chair and lifted the cover of the overhead compartment. Tucked way in back beyond reach are four large carafes of mead brewed by the Immortal general-turned-priest. Reaching for one, Duncan's fingers gently caressed the glass. In the light of day, the amber liquid took on a warm, golden glow. Immortality is a double-edged sword, especially when you outlasted those you care for - mortal and Immortal. A sad smile appeared on the Highlander's face. Duncan touched the cold glass once more before he carefully placed it back. The last time the Highlander drank mead was when Fitzcairn paid him an unexpected visit; sadly, it was the same day Darius was murdered by renegade Watchers. Since then, Duncan did not tap into his stash of the rare brew. Instead, he saved it as a remembrance of his slain friend. If only he'd been able to save him. The only good thing that came of that horrible day was saving Fitzcairn from the same fate. Connor, Tessa, Richie, Fitzcairn, Rebecca, Gabriel, Charlie, Sean, Darius – all of them gone . . .and damn it, he was not going to add Jordie to that list! Fighting the sadness that threatened to overwhelm him, the Highlander steeled himself. With a sigh, the Highlander prowled his floating home.

Checking the galley, Duncan raised an eyebrow. The refer was fully stocked and a pot of onion soup simmered on the stovetop. On the kitchen counter a wooden carving board held an assortment of fruit and cheese. A note lay beside it with instructions concerning the garlic bread and roast in the refer. The Highlander placed the roast into the pre-warmed oven and plucked a grape from the cluster on the counter, biting into the tart skin as he reacquainted himself with the rest of the barge. In the head, the toilet flushed and clear water flowed from the tap. Duncan walked back into the main living area; Methos had come in and was hanging his overcoat in a closet.

"Ah, I see Celeste came," Methos said, giving the place a cursory glance. "She also made dinner. Wonderful."

Duncan shrugged out of his overcoat as well, removing his Katana from the scabbard; tossing his overcoat to the Ancient, Duncan sat on the sofa and reached for his kiri. The Highlander began to clean his sword, his mood dark and brooding.

"You thought of all the details, Methos," the Highlander commented. The Eldest allowed himself a small smile at Duncan's words.

_If only you knew, MacLeod_. the Ancient One thought to himself.

"It's the least I could do after that first class flight. Why pay to stay elsewhere when you've your own?" Methos said. Duncan couldn't argue with the logic.

#

Clearing away the remnants of their meal, Methos dried the last dish and put it away. It appeared he'd be paying for his beer and board by doing dishes. Again. He sighed; all considering, it wasn't too bad. The Ancient One, however, drew the line at cleaning the head. Scrubbing toilets was _not_ in his self-appointed job description. Unless, of course, every stroke resulted in a case of beer; for which, he'd do almost anything. Overhead, Methos could hear the Highlander move about topside, inspecting the deck, checking the moorings. When Duncan returned below deck, he seemed to be in lighter spirits, the melancholy air was gone.

"Let's go see Joe," the younger Immortal suggested.

"That's the first intelligent thing you've said since we've arrived, MacLeod," Methos replied as he hung up the dishtowel.

The Highlander shot the Eldest a dirty look as he retrieved their overcoats. Tossing Methos his, Duncan slid his Katana into the scabbard and headed above deck. Methos opened the closet door and pulled out his suitcase. Unlocking it, the Ancient rummaged beneath his clothes and removed his dagger and gun. He didn't bother to test the blade's edge, for he always made sure to keep it razor sharp. Turning his attention to the Glock, the Immortal held it to the light; Methos checked the safeties and did a quick press check. Pushing the gun's slide a quarter to the rear, the brass of the round in the chamber winked up at him. Satisfied, he withdrew two more magazines and slid his dagger into its sheath at the small of his back. Double checking to see the magazines were fully loaded, Methos slipped them into one of the many secret pockets of his overcoat and went to join his friend.

On deck, the Highlander finished his final check of the barge's bilge pump; when Methos appeared on deck, Duncan secured the cabin and stepped into the speedboat. Hands in his pockets, Methos absently adjusted the weight of his sword hidden within his overcoat as he watched his friend insert the key and give it a twist. The Ancient One fervently hoped nothing would happen in 765, Methos crossed the Atlantic to Iceland in a rowboat with Irish Monks who sang non-stop. The elder Immortal hated the water ever since; his hopes were dashed when the small but powerful engine roared to life. Adjusting the controls, Duncan waited impatiently for Methos to board. The Eldest took his time boarding the small craft, dawdling as much as he dared.

"C'mon, this is the fastest way we'll make it to Joe's. Are you coming, or are you going to take a taxi?" Duncan asked, eager to be on his way.

"Patience is a virtue, MacLeod," Methos said, eyeing the speedboat warily.

"So's the ability to swim. I'm not feeling virtuous right now," Duncan warned.

Reluctantly, Methos climbed in and sat down. Once the mooring was released, the Highlander smoothly steered it away from the barge, easing the throttle forward until the boat skipped along the water's surface. The wind whipped back the Immortals' hair and stung their faces. Duncan glanced at his friend. Methos didn't look thrilled at all; one hand was braced on the dashboard, the other tightly gripped the back of his seat as they bounced along. The Highlander laughed, the sound lost in the wind; Duncan grinned and pushed the throttle forward all the way; in response, the boat shuddered and barely skimmed the water as they hydroplaned. Beside him, Methos groaned and looked decidedly unwell.

It was good to be back.

#

Watching Jordan disappear into the House, Legolas walked Arod to the stable. Dismissing the stable hand, Legolas unbuckled his quiver and knives and carefully leaned them and his great bow against the stall's corner. The golden Elf attended his equine friend personally; drawing fresh water, for his thirsty friend, the Wood Elf brought a bale of sweet-smelling hay, adding an extra measure of oats to Arod's feed. While the noble steed ate, Legolas employed a currycomb to remove loose hair and dirt from his coat. Using long strokes, the Elf brushed his mount's sleek hide until it shone like pure driven snow. Stroking the horse's velvety nose, Legolas quietly spoke to him in Elvish. The horse nickered in reply.

"She is different," Legolas acknowledged.

Chuckling softly, the Prince ran his hands down the horse's withers. Arod snorted and nudged the Elf with his head.

"Which one, Mellonamin?" the Elf asked. The horse whinnied; Legolas left the stall and returned with a hoof pick.

"Yes, there is something most beguiling about her," The Elf agreed as he checked the horse's hooves.

Picking up a hind leg, he inspected the shoe. Holding it securely between his knees, Legolas bent over and used the pick to remove dirt and debris from the equine's hoof.

"So, you believe she feels the same, do you?" Legolas asked as he worked.

Arod tossed his head and swished his flowing tail, smacking the Elf in the face with the stiff hairs. Legolas lightly slapped the horse affectionately on the rear. Looking at his Elf, Arod playfully swished his tail again, mussing the Elf's hair. Looking over his shoulder, Legolas waved the pick at his restive steed.

"Behave, Mellonamin. If you want your other hooves cleaned, you musn't annoy your farrier." The Prince said with a stern expression on his perfect face

The Mirkwood Elf didn't fool the horse. Arod blew an equine raspberry at the Elf and spittle flew everywhere. Legolas chuckled and raised his arms, avoiding most of the spray. Bending over again, Legolas resumed their conversation as he tended the other hooves. When Legolas finished, the Elf rubbed his mount's ears.

"That was not kind of you to jostle her so; though I admit it was very pleasant to hold her close. For that I thank you, my friend." Arod whinnied, showing his teeth in an equine version of a smile.

"I feel her desire for me as well, but I do not believe she is ready to act upon it. I have heard that mortal women are strange that way; some say they are prone to frequent fits of melancholy as well – more so than the males." Arod snorted and leaned his head over the Elf's shoulder. Legolas patted the horse's neck.

"Tis a pity, of the maidens in Middle Earth, the one whom I desire above all else is a daughter of Man. Not only is she mortal, Jordan insists she does not belong here. Perhaps the Valar will smile upon me and make it so that the lady will not wish to return," Legolas mused; Arod showed the whites of his eyes and tossed his head.

"Oh, I intend to persuade her otherwise, my friend," the Elf said.

"She is mine; she just does not realize it yet. . . else she is too stubborn to admit it." Arod stamped his front hooves on the straw covered floor.

"And what do you suggest I do?" Legolas asked.

The horse reared up slightly on his hind legs and tossed his luxurious mane. Cocking his head to the side, The Elf crossed his arms over his chest and raised a brow, amused.

"Aye, your suggestion has merit; alas, were it so simple. I do not believe she will allow me to just . . . 'mount' her, my friend." Legolas said dryly. The horse neighed and pawed the straw.

"I must court the lady's favor." The Elf explained. Arod snorted and twitched his ears.

"Soon, my friend. Very soon," the Elf-Prince assured his equine friend, wrapping his arms around his neck.

Before his Elf-friend left, the horse gently bit the Wood Elf's shoulder in affection. Giving the steed a final pat on his strong neck, Legolas collected his weapons and bid Arod good night, taking one of the many scenic paths back to his assigned quarters. Even at night, Imladris' beauty could not be ignored, for an abundance of night blooming flowers lined the walkways, their pale blooms proudly unfurled, their scents perfuming the air. The Elf's excellent vision recognized the yellow flowers of the evening primrose, the white, sweetly scented petals of the climbing moonflower. Among the white blossoms, the red and pink blooms identified the fragrant annual, Nicotiana.

Perhaps one night the Wood Elf could persuade Jordan to walk a path with him. Legolas realized he wanted to discover all there was to know about her. Now that the immediate concern of the Orcs was past, he meant to unravel the mystery that was Jordan Waters. Hopefully, he would be able to unravel more than that. Legolas certainly intended to try. A smile graced his lips as he imagined the possibilities. In his quarters, Legolas unbuckled his weapons, cleaning and inspecting them before availing himself to his private bathing chamber. Drying his lithe body, the Elf dressed automatically, his thoughts with the woman whose abilities and actions raised questions, yet whose answers revealed nothing, a puzzle that intrigued him.

Wondering how Gimli fared, the golden Elf searched for the Elf-Friend. Legolas found the Dwarf enjoying a well-earned repast in the common dining hall. Unlike the Elf, Gimli had not bothered to bathe and change; his helm lay on the bench next to him; his double-headed axe leaned against a carven stone pillar; even in Imladris, the Dwarf's weapons were always within easy reach. Gimli pushed a platter of food towards Legolas. With a smile of thanks, the Elf reached for a round loaf, and tore off a sizeable chunk of the soft, warm bread, spreading it with clover honey and almond butter as a she-Elf placed a flagon of water and ale before the Prince. Legolas thanked the maiden, who blushed her pleasure before discretely withdrawing.

"Are you well?" Legolas asked.

"Aye, Lad; t'was but a simple walk in the woods," Gimli replied, waving his eating dagger before stabbing a succulent piece of roast. "The vermin have been dealt with, they have."

Amused, Legolas sat back and watched his friend eat. Breadcrumbs and bits of meat clung to his bushy beard. Reaching for his beer, Gimli drank with relish and set his pewter stein down with a bang; the platters and other dishes jumped and rattled, the Elf's water sloshed over the rim of his goblet. Legolas sighed, and mopped up the spill with his linen napkin.

Dwarves were hardy creatures, no doubt; the one before him was no different in that regard. What he lacked in polish and finesse, Gimli more than made up for in other areas. The friends lapsed into the familiar routine of easy conversation peppered with the occasional lively difference of opinion. During an interlude of companionable silence, Legolas studied the Elf-friend, who was busy gnawing the meat from a joint of mutton. Chewing noisily, Gimli blotted the grease from his lips with his wrist guard.

"And how is your Lady?" the Dwarf asked. Legolas carved a slice of cheese from a thick slab.

"She is well. I left her at the House. No doubt Jordan is in her quarters as we speak," Legolas answered.

"You seem to always know her whereabouts, Lad," the Dwarf said casually as he tore the meat from the bone.

"Jordan... interests me," Legolas said. Gimli smiled and smacked his lips loudly.

"I know. We have had this conversation before, Lad." Gimli reminded his friend before he spat out a tough piece of gristle.

"We have had many conversations, Fangon (bearded one). To which are you referring to?"

"My asking how your Lady fares." The Dwarf replied. The Elf simply smiled. After a moment, he answered.

"I hope we have many more." Legolas said.

Gimli looked at his friend, his ruddy features relaxed into a smile. "If that is what you desire, then I wish it for you as well, Mellon."

The friends enjoyed their simple meal together, glad in each other's company. The past skirmish served to remind the Free Races that evil must never again be allowed to run unchecked; to do so would dishonor the memories of those who had fallen on the battle fields, sacrificing their lives for the good of Middle-earth.

Jordan stared into the night; a speck of movement caught her attention. Blinking, her eyes narrowed as she peered into the dark courtyard below. There it was again! Now that she was attuned to it, more lights hovered in the distance; the tiny lights floated gently in the darkness, beckoning her; curious, she stared at it, wondering what it could be. Intrigued, Jordan slid her feet into slippers. Weariness forgotten, the Immortal went down the stairs and into the courtyard below, following the lights that seemed to float just beyond her. The woman's steps carried her further away from her quarters.

_There are so many . . . fireflies!_

Scattered about were clusters of the minute insects, their phosphorescent lights glowed gently. At ground level, their tiny numbers increased tenfold. Smiling with delight, Jordan slowly turned in a circle; her arms outspread, imagining the insects as tiny fairies dancing to the music of the night.

_I don't care how long I'm here for. I'm going to enjoy it as long as it lasts; whatever it is between Legolas and I, and however long I have with him, I'll take it_

Not wanting to disturb the romancing fireflies, Jordan was about to return to her quarters when she felt the Buzz intensify. She hadn't thought to put a cloak or robe over her sleeping shift. Why, oh why didn't she think about that before hand? The Immortal was in the middle of the open courtyard, practically naked in her sheer gown with nothing to hide behind.

_Calm down. You can either run for the stairs, or run for the stairs. Not much of a choice_.

Jordan sprinted towards her quarters. Reaching the stairway, Jordan took the steps two at a time, clutching her side, as she tried to soothe the stitch. Kicking off her slippers, Jordan threw herself onto the bed, breathless. After a moment she laughed. No doubt Lord Elrond will hear of her late night streaking escapade. Maybe Collette was right; she needed to have fun.

Le Blues Bar

Paris

Joe Dawson stood behind the counter, wiping a shot glass dry before adding it to a plastic crate filled with clean and dry shot glasses. It was quiet in the bar; the lunch crowd was gone, leaving a much-welcomed lull. Only the regular bar flies remained. In a corner, a rough looking kid with dreadlocks sat on a stool tuning his guitar before he launched into a medley of blues. An older gentleman nursed his drink at one end of the bar. Seated in a booth, a young couple talked quietly over their drinks, absorbed in one another. The Watcher looked up as the door swung open.

Framed in the doorway were two tall silhouettes; he'd recognize them anywhere, even without the overcoats. Joe felt a small twinge of envy. For someone over five millennia, the Old Man looked vibrant and healthy, while the Watcher felt the occasional ache and pain more frequently, reminding him of the inevitable ravages of time. Methos slipped onto a stool and nodded at the Watcher. Even now, Joe sometimes found it difficult to believe the Eldest had once been Death. That the former Horseman and the Highlander forged a friendship, was equally puzzling, yet proved that even Immortals could change. The Watcher reached beneath the counter and produced a tall stein, filling it from the tap. The suds spilt over the rim as he pushed it towards the Ancient One.

"I could kiss you," the Ancient said.

"Please don't. Paris is gay - I'm not," the Watcher replied.

"Only if you keep them coming. I've suddenly developed a powerful thirst." Methos said.

The Watcher gave him an exasperated look. Leaning against the counter, the Highlander greeted the man.

"There's something wrong with this picture. Aren't you supposed to be watching me?" Duncan asked.

"Hey, don't take this the wrong way, but face it, Mac - sometimes you're just not that interesting." The Watcher replied with a cheeky grin.

Duncan gave his Watcher a mock wounded look as he sat on a stool. Joe pushed a bowl of nuts and pretzels before his friends.

"And hi back," the Watcher said sarcastically.

"Hi Joe." Duncan said. He had the decency to look slightly embarrassed.

"So what're you guys up to?" Joe asked.

"We're here to see you, Joe; thought MacLeod could use a break from his . . . search." Methos said. Joe nodded, then looked at the Ancient appraisingly. The older Immortal seemed a bit . . .off.

"What's your problem?" he asked.

"We took the speedboat here." Methos said gloomily. Joe shook his head, chuckling softly.

"Hot damn! You managed to get the Old Man to sail the high seas?" Joe asked the Highlander incredulously.

"If we took the Concorde here, he can take a short boat ride." Duncan said, his voice calm. The Watcher whistled.

"Isn't that kinda pricey?" Joe asked, with his eyebrows raised.

"It is. Adam booked it with my credit card," Duncan said, glaring at the Eldest before the Ancient could answer.

Methos drained his stein and pushed it towards the Watcher, an innocent smile on his face.

"Someone has to help you spend your money. Why not me?" Methos asked, as if it were the most logical thing in the

world.

"Yeah, well I don't recall asking for volunteers, Methos." Came the Highlander's exasperated reply.

"'Adam', MacLeod – 'Adam'." The Ancient reminded his friend.

Watching the Immortals bicker back and forth like two old biddies, Joe smiled as he refilled Methos' drink and set a glass

atop the counter. Plunking several ice cubes into it, he produced a metal mixing glass and measured into it scotch, sweet vermouth, bitters and simple syrup. The Watcher stirred the concoction together and strained it into the glass, which he placed before the Highlander.

"Ha ha, Joe – very funny," Duncan said before taking a sip. It wasn't bad. He took another sip.

"What?" the Watcher said, innocently before laughing outright. The drink he'd mixed was called 'The Flying Scotsman'.

"You've got balls, Old Man," Joe said, addressing the Ancient.

"I've got more than that, Joe," Methos said cryptically. Turning to the younger Immortal, Joe's face became serious.

"I talked with Micky D again. Far as he can tell, there's still nothing in Jordie's Chronicles that'll show she'd run. Nothing he's aware of, at least. Unless she seriously pissed somebody off. Be kinda hard to slip that by a Watcher. A good one, that is – and I can tell you that Micky D is good. I checked them out myself, and he's right. What 'bout you, Mac? You're at a stand still too?"

"You don't miss much, do you?" Methos interjected.

The Old Man was still annoyed with the boat ride. MacLeod knew how much he hated the water, yet insisted on that mode of travel. The beers hadn't improved his mood... yet.

"You ready to pay off your tab?" Joe shot back as he refilled his stein. Methos grinned as he busied himself with his beer.

"Joe, I wish there was something more I could do; I wish I was with her - I feel like I'm running around in circles. I don't know what else to do," Duncan sighed. Methos pushed his empty stein towards the Watcher.

"Here's what you can do: stop repeating yourself for one. We got the point, Mac. You know, maybe you need to do what the Old Man says; some things need to be waited out," Joe deftly refilled the Ancient's stein yet again as he fixed the Highlander with a stern look when the Immortal glowered at him.

"I didn't stay to stop looking. You know I care for her too Mac," the Watcher said quietly, fixing his charge with a glare to match. After a moment, the Highlander nodded. The Watcher decided a change of topic would good.

"Maybe you guys'll wanna check out the Renn Fest that's going on. It's scheduled for three weeks. How long are you planning on staying?"

"Don't know. We'll probably do that. But I want to check on Gregory first and see how he's doing. Wanna come?" the Highlander asked. Methos pushed his empty stein towards the Watcher. Joe glared at the Ancient One as he filled his stein again.

"Why don't I just attach a hose from the tap to your mouth?" the Watcher asked sarcastically.

"That's the smartest thing you've ever said, Joe," Methos returned. The boat ride was bad enough; the conversation between his friends wasn't exactly thrilling him, either.

"He seemed like a nice guy. Sounds like a plan. Gimme a sec; I need to pass the torch." Tossing the dishtowel on the counter, Joe reached for his cane and called for the head waitress. Methos pushed his empty stein towards the Watcher.

"Bar's closed, Old Man," Joe said with a grin.

"Damn." Methos replied.

Tipping the driver, Duncan watched the taxi pull away from the curb before catching up with his companions. Looking around the fashionable neighborhood, ritzy shops were squeezed in between high-end eateries. Strolling down the rue, Duncan stopped outside a boutique displaying expensive ladies' lingerie. He sighed, for he frequently patronized the boutique many times in the past, purchasing several frothy creations for Tessa.

Unfortunately for the pretty negligee, and fortunately for them, Tessa only had the chance to model the purchase briefly - before it quickly ended up on the floor, or strewn elsewhere. Now they were sitting in the barge, in the drawers where she'd left them. Duncan cleared his throat and walked on. He walked for half a block when his steps slowed.

The Buzz alerted the Immortals to another's presence; they exchanged glances before Duncan followed the pull of the Buzz. Strolling a bit further, the Scot paused outside Gregory's shop. Here was the source. Duncan walked in without hesitating; his companions paused outside.

"The Boy Scout just does not give up, does he, Joe?" The Watcher shrugged and followed his charge inside. Methos lingered outside; confident the Highlander could handle the situation. His dark eyes lifted upwards.

"Arda's Treasures. How... appropriate," Methos murmured to himself. Studying the sign, he counted the stars above a naked silver tree before following Joe inside.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. You won't be needing that," the Highlander said in a low voice, indicating the silver rapier the woman stood near.

Methos found the Highlander and his Watcher inside the surprisingly cavernous store, as well as an unknown Immortal. He couldn't fault her for looking nervous. The Ancient One glanced at Joe, who was pretending to study a framed map in the far corner of the room. Close enough to see and hear, far enough to be discrete. Methos studied the woman; tall, ash-blonde hair and brown eyes. Coolly professional, she could be at home in the antique shop, or a library. Her eyes flicked over to him, studying him as well, and then to Joe, confident a Challenge wasn't forthcoming.

"I have heard of you," she said. Duncan didn't to ask what she knew. His reputation preceded him; whether that was good or bad was a matter of opinion.

"I'm looking for Gregory. Is he around?" Duncan asked.

"I am sorry, Monsieur MacLeod. Monsieur McGulloch is away at the moment." The Highlander didn't bother to hide his disappointment.

"He is, however, expecting you. Monsieur McGulloch left word that you please wait for him in his office." Duncan turned to Methos, a pleased grin on his face. The Ancient took the opportunity to step forward.

"Hello. I'm Adam." He gave her a smile he knew the ladies found irresistible. It worked, for the frost in her light eyes warmed, if only slightly.

"I am Jacqueline." She offered her hand to the Ancient, who took it, raising her knuckles to his lips.

Duncan rolled his eyes. It was rare that he was unable to win a woman over. To see Methos do it so easily wounded his ego. Just a little; Duncan wasn't sure what he'd done to offend her, for he felt she was pointedly ignoring him.

"Enchanté, Madame. . ?"

"Mademoiselle Dupree," she supplied. Methos smiled before releasing her hand.

"Mdme. Dupree, I'd like to introduce you to a . . . colleague of mine, Monsieur Dawson." Catching the Watcher's attention, Methos waved him over, and then performed the introductions. Giving Joe a ghost of a smile, Jacqueline addressed Methos.

"Wait here, s'il vous plait (please)." Swinging her cool gaze to the Highlander, she assessed him once more.

"Follow me, s'il vous plait (please)." She disappeared around the corner. Giving his friends a bemused grin, Duncan followed.

Jacqueline led the Highlander down a wide hallway, coming to a stop before a heavy door. Pushing it open, she motioned for him to go in.

"This is his private study. Please make yourself comfortable. There is a wet bar in the corner."

"You are quite a joy, Mademoiselle," the Highlander said softly, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. He wasn't up to humoring cold women just now. The one he was searching for was enough to deal with at the moment.

Jacqueline left without further comment, pulling the door closed firmly behind her. Duncan shook his head; studying the door before him, he wondered what type of wood it was. Too golden for birch, too thick for eucalyptus, nothing at all like mahogany or other hardwoods; it was an interesting silver-gold in color, its texture almost warm to the touch. Interesting. The Highlander took a closer look. There were runes carven onto the doors surface, as well as strange, calligraphic letters unrecognizable yet vaguely familiar. Where did he see those markings? Try as he might, he couldn't recall, though he felt he should know. Taking a step back, Duncan blinked. And blinked again. The markings were gone. Touching the door, smooth wood was all he felt.

"Joe'd better check his bottles. There's definitely something wrong with the liquor," he told himself.

It took more than a dozen beers to get him drunk, and he'd only had the one mixed drink. Dismissing it as a trick of the light, Duncan looked around the room. Antiques of all kinds were scattered throughout the room in an ordered chaos. It reminded him of Connor's secret chamber that was filled with priceless artifacts and souvenirs of his long life - all of which were now Duncan's. Continuing his survey of the room, a heavily embroidered tapestry caught the Scot's eye. Duncan was drawn to it. The rich fabric was deep red in color, almost maroon. The embroidery depicting a great battle scene gleamed richly, and swayed ever so slightly, making the Man on the ground seem to wave his broken sword at the menacing black figure towering over him. Instinctively, the Highlander knew there was something behind the tapestry. Reaching out to draw it aside, the Clansman hesitated.

"If Gregory wanted to keep people out, he would've had a door instead," Duncan told himself.

The Highlander felt like a child about to take the proverbial cookie from the jar. Curiosity aroused, he cautiously drew the partition aside. In the center of the windowless room, a single shaft of light fell upon the stone pillar, illuminating the dark cloth. Something lay beneath the cloth. Duncan felt compelled to enter. Of their own accord, his footsteps brought him directly in front of the pillar. The black cloth had a silver tree; unlike the sign outside the shop, this one was full of leaves, as well as the stars above it.

The Clansman stretched forth his hand and drew off the cloth; beneath it, a ball rested on a black velvet pillow. Duncan couldn't help but smile. A crystal ball, of all things, albeit a black one. Funny, Duncan never thought Gregory subscribed to such charlatan tricks. The Highlander touched its cold surface.

"Jordie, are you in there?" he murmured.

If only it were that simple. Too bad these things never worked.

"Crystal ball, tell me all," he commanded, half-jokingly.

Nothing happened. Willing Jordan to appear, Duncan continued to stare at the glassy surface that remained unchanged. Giving up, the Immortal was about to leave when he hesitated.

_. . . you have the Sorcerer Nakano in you_ Methos' words came back to him.

"What the hell," Duncan said aloud. It was certainly worth a try.

Fixing an image of Jordan in his mind, the Highlander concentrated. Duncan reached deep within himself, searching for the spirit of the Immortal, Nakano. The Highlander called forth the Sorcerer's knowledge... concentrating... willing Jordan to appear. Faintly at first, he felt a tingle; it grew stronger, then spread through his body until his blood felt like it was rushing in his veins. In response, before him, the surface of the glass seemed to move.

Wispy tendrils of smoke appeared, swirling lazily, writhing before taking shape. Duncan was riveted in place by the object before him; he couldn't react to anything, not even to the Buzz, announcing the arrival of another Immortal. A small part of his mind knew between Methos and Joe, they could handle any situation that would arise. The images became distinct. It was like watching a silent movie for no words could be heard. Duncan's eyes widened in amazement and the black cloth fell from his slack fingers to flutter soundlessly to the floor.


	17. So It Begins

Lying on the bed, Jordan's breathing slowly returned to normal. In the solitude of her room, the Immortal pondered the extraordinary turn her life had taken; so much had happened since her arrival in Middle Earth. Jordan was there to stay, and she felt at peace with her decision to simply let go and see where this adventure led. Without the benefits of modern day electronics, the woman was forced to find alternative methods of entertainment, often resorting to serenading herself at night. Rolling onto her back, the Immortal sang softly as she tucked her arms behind her head and closed her eyes, the crackle and pop of the logs as they burned her only accompaniment.

Raven hair and ruby lips  
sparks fly from her finger tips  
Echoed voices in the night  
she's a restless spirit on an endless flight  
wooo hooo witchy woman, see how  
high she flies  
woo hoo witchy woman she got  
the moon in her eye

The Immortal's eyes flew open as the lyrics faded into silence. "Better take care of it now before you forget." She told herself.

Jordan sat up and quickly crawled off the bed. Humming the tune as she opened the armoire, she pulled out the first aid satchel. Rummaging inside for clean bandages, she quickly shed her night shift and stood nude before the mirror, deliberating the best way to go about her task. Her wounds completely healed - the Immortal knew that in itself would raise many questions. Questions Jordan intended to not answer.

"Okay, this'll be interesting." She said, wishing for another pair of hands to help. Dressing her arm by herself will certainly prove to be quite a challenge.

"Need tape . . . " Jordan mused aloud. Searching the pockets of her overcoat, she came up with empty candy wrappers, a matchbook with a phone number on it, unopened chocolates, and a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. Picking up the matchbook, Jordan stared at it.

"Were you with me all along?" she wondered. Jordan thought back to that day in Trollshaw Forest, sure she had no way of starting a fire.

"I guess I'll be able to start one now." She said as she discarded the matches. Jordan put her hands on her hips and studied the assortment of odds and ends before her.

"Where is it?" she wondered.

The Immortal impatiently flipped her shortened hair back over her shoulder. The one-inch roll of plastic tape ranked high among the most useful tools of her profession, and she usually kept a roll within reach, no matter if it was in her scrub jacket pocket, purse or overcoat. Hoping against hope, Jordan checked her other pockets; the Immortal tossed aside a key ring, a pack of chewing gum, and a recently acquired ticket – the consequence of leaving her car in the disabled parking space.

"Oh no – I forgot about this!" Jordan wailed. Reading the ticket, she uttered several choice expletives, and then took a deep, calming breath.

_Well, can't do anything about it now. I've got other things to worry about._ Jordan shrugged as she tossed the candy wrappers and ticket into the hearth, watching the slips of paper shrivel and blacken in the flames as she crooned softly to herself.

She held me spellbound in the night  
dancing shadows and firelight  
crazy laughter in another  
room and she drove herself to madness  
with a silver spoon  
woo hoo witchy woman see how high she flies  
woo hoo witchy woman she got the moon in her eye

Many minutes later, after a thorough and unsuccessful search of her pockets, the Immortal used her chin to hold the bandage in place, and with her free hand and teeth, carefully struggled to tighten the bandage around her arm and tie a knot. Flexing her arm, rotating it in a wide circle, she was finally satisfied it would stay in place. Next, she considered her fully healed shoulder; without tape, the awkward location presented a more difficult task for the Immortal to disguise. Jordan worried her bottom lip, wondering how to solve the dilemma when her eyes wandered back to the satchel. Inspiration struck. Spreading the contents onto the table, the Immortal pawed thru it, separating the phials, bandages, packets of dried herbs and other medicines into small piles. After testing several pots of ointment, she found a sticky paste that doubled nicely as an adhesive. Jordan continued to sing off key as she worked.

Well I know you want a lover,  
let me tell your brother, she's been sleeping  
in the Devil's bed.  
And there's some rumors going round  
someone's underground  
she can rock you in the nighttime  
'til your skin turns red  
woo hoo witchy woman  
see how high she flies  
woo hoo witchy woman  
she got the moon in her eye

Striking a menacing pose, Jordan curled her fingers into claws and hissed at herself in the mirror before dissolving into laughter. Sobering, the Immortal used a shuriken to cut a clean linen cloth into a four-inch by four-inch square. Smearing the paste onto the edges, she pressed it onto her shoulder and waited. Rolling her shoulder forward and backward, Jordan was pleased to see it remained in place. Donning her nightshift, the Immortal returned her star to its sheath, repacked the satchel and stowed it in the armoire. With a huge yawn that almost dislocated her jaw, Jordan stretched and climbed back into bed. Snuggling into her pillow, she closed her eyes. Emerging from the tree line, Legolas strode into the open courtyard where the object of his desire stood but moments before. He almost called out to her, to stay her flight, but did not. To do so would deprive him the pleasure of watching her gown form to her body as she ran to her quarters. Legolas surveyed Jordan's quarters, contemplating the gauzy curtains that waved invitingly in the soft night breeze.

By nature, Elves were patient creatures, and Legolas was no different; however, tonight he was determined there would be some sort of resolution to their 'situation'; the attraction between the Elf and the woman was undeniably mutual, and disconcertingly powerful. Never mind Legolas had never before been drawn to a human female, or that she was otherworldly. The Mirkwood Prince knew without a doubt Jordan wanted him as he wanted her. Unfortunately, she was too stubborn to concede, or, at the very least, quite reluctant to follow the natural progression of said attraction. This game they played would end - tonight. Squaring his shoulders, the Elf's blue eyes burned bright as he concentrated, willing her to appear.

_Tula amin (Come to me) . . . _

"Go 'way, Duncan - I'm trying to sleep." She mumbled, snuggling deeper into her pillow. The Immortal was almost asleep, drifting towards the twilight state where the fine line between dreams and reality blurred. A shiver of thought brushed across the edge of her conscious mind.

_Tula amin (Come to me) ._ . .

Startled, Jordan's eyes popped open. After a moment, her confused mind registered that she was indeed awake and sitting up in bed. Puzzled and slightly disoriented, the Immortal looked around the room. She saw nothing amiss; cocking her head to the side, she heard nothing unusual. Jordan felt slightly foolish, certain it was a trick of her imagination.

_Tula amin (Come to me). . . _

The Immortal was about to lie down when she felt it again; this time, she couldn't deny it. The decision lay before her: ignore it and stay in her nice, warm bed – after all, didn't she deserve it after today fighting Orcs all day? Or . . . she could do a little investigative work.

_This is definitely weird. Curiosity killed the cat. _Jordan warned herself.

_But satisfaction brought it back. _her imagination answered back smugly.

_Tula amin (Come to me). . . _

The decision was made. Whatever it was, it enticed her, as compelling as a siren's call. She had to find the source. Before she could think more on the matter, Jordan climbed out of bed. Reaching for her wrap, she pulled the sheer material on and slid her feet into her slippers; standing still, the Immortal waited. The feeling grew more insistent. What on Middle Earth was going on? It hadn't come from within the room, for she was most assuredly alone. Her gaze snapped to the open doors, the gauzy curtains billowed softly in the night breeze. Thinking about the horror movies she occasionally would watch alone late at night, Jordan's heart beat faster.

_What if. . .what if Orcs managed to invade Rivendell and are holding the Elves hostage_? she thought to herself.

Jordan's imagination conjured up other scenarios. The Immortal silently retrieved her Katana and stealthily edged towards the balcony doors.

_Tula amin (Come to me) . . . _

Legolas allowed himself a smile of triumph when his excellent vision detected movement; after a moment, Jordan appeared

on the balcony - what in Manwë's name was she doing? His smile turned to one of quizzical amusement. The woman's curved blade flashed; she looked to be searching for . . . a foe?! Gripping her sword securely with both hands, Jordan did a quick perimeter check, listening for anything unusual. Slowly easing the curtains back, the Immortal stepped outside, keeping close to the wall; she looked up towards the roof and saw nothing. A glance in all directions showed nothing and no one. Jodan thought about the thriller flicks where the score built up the suspense, right before the monster or villain jumped out of the shadows.

She hated those movies with a passion, yet it did not stop her from dragging a reluctant Collette with her to the theatres and screaming herself silly, sometimes showering the other moviegoers around her with popcorn or soda, or whatever else she happened to be holding at the time—much to their great annoyance. With her heart pounding in her ears, Jordan crept towards the balcony, praying that nothing jumped out at her over the railing. Peering over the rail, in the courtyard below stood a figure, waiting. Legolas. Surprised, Jordan lowered her sword and pinched herself hard on her bottom to make sure she was indeed awake. He was still there, the moonlight painting his pale hair silver. Legolas looked up at the woman. Would she come?

Jordan stared at the Elf for several long moments before she turned and went back inside. In the courtyard, Legolas stared after her, hardly able to believe she had left. There was no way she could not have seen him. Unless . . . he been presumptuous about her feelings for him? Elves were unaffected by time's passage as Men were wont to, and the Elf-Prince had seen many leaf falls and seasons turn, hardly giving them more than a brief thought, yet he acutely felt each minute that passed without Jordan's reappearance. Legolas couldn't help but wonder if going to her had been a grievous error on his part. Confusion and uncertainty filled the Elf – emotions he had not felt in many, many years – especially when dealing with a maiden.


	18. The Kiss

In the safety of her quarters, Jordan quickly sheathed her sword and began pacing in her room, struggling to regain her compose. Legolas. Elf of her fantasies. He of pointed ears. He, who had a way of making her heart skip a beat with the mere thought of him, whose blue eyes put the sea to shame. The only Elf in Rivendell, whose single glance effortlessly and completely held her enthralled, and caused her body to tingle in places she did not think possible and feel excitement that she only dreamt about. Hugging herself as she stared into the dancing flames, Jordan wondered at Legolas' presence in the courtyard. Was it coincidence? Did he just happen by? Was he the one 'calling' her? If so, what exactly did it mean? What did it all mean? Jordan addressed her shadow on the wall.

"What's he doing out there?" she asked. Her shadow had no answer for her. Jordan snorted. If Collette caught her talking to her shadow, the blonde might say that her friend needed to check herself into the psychiatric unit for observation.

_Some help you are_. Jordan muttered to her silhouette with her hands on her hips. It just mimicked her.

_Only one way to find out – ask him!_ the demon on her shoulder whispered encouragingly.

_This is crazy._ The sane part of her reasoned.

_Just go with it!_ her impish side prodded.

_I'm dreaming_. Jordan's rational side helpfully provided.

_Then stay asleep, damn it! Don't. Wake. Up!_ the imp instructed.

"What am I supposed to do - what should I do?" the Immortal wondered aloud, indecisive.

_Don't bother – he's probably gone. Y'had your chance!_ her reckless side huffed snidely.

Jordan climbed back into bed and pulled the covers beneath her chin. Determined to not read too much into the matter, she closed her eyes and groaned, for her mind thoughtfully provided a vivid image of Legolas' face. The Immortal couldn't suppress the shiver that ran thru her like quicksilver, for she saw in the Elf danger and a threat. A threat to more than just her peace of mind. The Immortal stared up at the ceiling and thought about their 'encounters', and readily admitted that she found them quite . . . enjoyable.

_What would it lead to?_ Jordan wondered.

She had no idea. She questioned the wisdom of further involvement with the Elf, for it would only make it that much more difficult to leave when the time came - whenever that was. If the Immortal was completely honest with herself, she suspected that this . . . dalliance with the Elf could easily leap beyond the bounds of mere attraction.

_So much for keeping my distance._ Jordan thought to herself with a sigh. That vow didn't last long.

With her past experiences still fresh in her mind, Jordan was cautious to pursue where her actions would lead, yet a part of her yearned to follow through and discover for herself what it was the Elf offered. The Immortal threw back the sheets; unable to contain her curiosity, she put her slippers on and went to see if he was still there – he was. Real. Waiting. Drawn to the Elf like a moth to flame, Jordan did not remember walking down the steps. One minute she was on the balcony looking down at Legolas, the next she found herself gazing up at him. Attended by dozens of fireflies hovering protectively around the Wood Elf, their tiny lights lent a magical aura to the already dreamlike feeling.

Legolas was still wondering if he was mistaken in coming to her, when Jordan reappeared. By the Valar, in all his long years, she was just a maiden, but completely unlike any maiden he had ever known! Unusual. Intriguing. Intriguing. Amusing. Stubborn. Those were just a few of the traits that came to mind when he thought of her. Jordan had somehow managed to insinuate herself under his skin and into his thoughts with a vengeance.

In the moonlight, Legolas' keen eyes drank in the sight of the woman as she descended the steps and came to stand before him. His eyes lingered at the bandages on her arm and shoulder, followed the shadows and curves of her body. Despite her lopsided hair, the Elf found her utterly desirable and innocently seductive in her gossamer nightclothes. His thoughts returned to the battle in the forest, recalling how her fitted clothing outlined every curve of hip, waist and leg, emphasized the swell of her breasts, hugged her shapely bottom.

Legolas held his hand out to her. Jordan didn't hesitate. Taking her hand in his, the Elf turned her around and pulled her firmly against his body. She fit perfectly against him as he held her hands. Looking over her shoulder, she was about to speak when Legolas gently shushed her. Afraid to ruin the moment, Jordan didn't move or speak, acutely aware of the feel of his body against her back, as he rubbed his face against her hair. She wondered if he could hear the wild beating of her heart, for the nearness of him was almost too much for her.

Legolas ran his hands up and down her arms, smiling to himself when he felt the gooseflesh thru the thin material of her wrap. He held her hands in his and turned her palms up. A smile stole across her face as fireflies lit in her cupped hands, their pale lights flashed, shining out between her fingers. Legolas' arms encircled her waist. They silently watched the hovering fireflies' flash in return. The Elf gently combed his hands thru Jordan's hair, his fingers massaging her scalp; she relaxed under his touch, enjoying his ministrations as more winged insects flitted about in their mating dance, allowing the Elf and the Immortal to witness their flirtatious ritual, their luminescent forms flashing at different intervals as they joined together.

"You do not rest." Legolas' quiet voice sent shivers up and down her arms. His warm hands had traveled down to her neck, then to her shoulders. Jordan swallowed, for her mouth and throat had suddenly gone dry.

"I, uh. . . couldn't sleep." she replied. Behind her, the Elf's lips curved into a smile.

"Are you well?" he inquired.

_More like hot and bothered._ Jordan almost said, for his hands were sliding down to her waist.

"I'm just fine." she replied faintly. Legolas' long, elegant fingers gripped her hips in a disturbingly intimate manner, sending a flush of heat thru her in response.

"Your wounds?" he murmured in her hair.

"My wounds. . .?" Jordan repeated dreamily, his hands were most distracting. Jordan was so caught up in the moment and the handsome Elf his words almost didn't register. Belatedly she remembered the reason for her bandages.

"My wounds . . . my wounds! Oh, er – they're fine." she said, hoping the Elf didn't notice her stumble.

_Nice, Jordie – how could you forget?!_ she berated herself silently;

"I regret I was not able to reach you in time. Gimli did what he thought best." Legolas said quietly into her ear; his breath feltsoft and warm against her cheek; the Immortal was so very glad she had bathed.

As his words sank in, the Immortal felt suddenly, painfully self-conscious - for she had actually forgotten about her involuntary haircut. Stiffening in his arms, she attempted to pull loose, but Legolas' firm hold kept her in place. Turning her to face him, Jordan kept her eyes on the ground, her cheeks burning. Jordan shuddered to think how she must look. Lifting her chin so he could look in her eyes, Legolas held the shorn hair in his free hand, and rubbed it between his fingers; he raised the dark lock to his lips and kissed it.

"Lle naa vanima." He murmured.

"In Common, please."

"You are beautiful."

"Oh…thank you." Feeling bold, Jordan's fingertips lightly touched the sensitive tips of his pointed ears with open fascination. The Elf closed his eyes and trembled slightly in response; her innocently curious touch affected him greatly. Legolas felt the blood rush to that part of him that burned for her. His leggings were rapidly becoming most uncomfortable.

Bending his golden head, Legolas' lips whispered against hers in a feather soft kiss. Testing . . .questioning. Jordan closed her eyes, opening them in disappointment when it ended.

_Carpe diem!_ Her mind shouted at her.

Of their own volition, her arms encircled the Elf's neck and pulled his head down to hers. Legolas' tongue lightly flicked over her lips, his teeth gently nibbled her lips before his tongue pushed past them to taste the sweetness of her mouth. Jordan melted against him, feeling like she was floating on a cloud. Nothing else mattered. He filled her senses, smelling like the fragrance after the rain—fresh, clean and earthy.

"Do you trust me, Jordan?"

"Yes…" she replied faintly, wanting more of his kisses.

"Will you surrender yourself to me?" he said softly.

"Mmmm…." His lips and hands had stopped all coherent thoughts from forming in her mind.

"Lle lava (do you yield)?" Pulling back from her, Legolas held her away from him, watching her intently, his breathing was slightly ragged. He captured her face in his hands and looked deep into her eyes, searching for an answer. Jordan couldn't think intelligently. The feelings the Elf stirred within her was unlike anything she'd ever experienced. Was it possible for your senses to spin? Because that's what hers were doing. Dimly, she was aware he'd asked her a question; for the life of her, Jordan couldn't remember what it was he had asked, thinking was the last thing on her mind. The Elf raised an eyebrow, amused. Obviously, her attention wasn't on conversation.

"Melamin?"

"Hmm?" she breathed; Jordan's lovely face was tilted up, intently studying the Elf's sensuous lips, Jordan's own were slightly parted, as she waited expectantly for another kiss. Legolas gave a low chuckle. Giving her a gentle shake, Jordan's eyes fluttered to his. What was wrong? The Elf repeated his question.

"Will you surrender yourself to me?" he asked again. Jordan blinked; it took a moment for her to comprehend the question, for the fog of desire clouded her mind. Sometimes his Old English-like speech was puzzling to the modern Immortal.

Surrender? She'd wave a white flag if she had one. She'd surrender the P.I.N. number to her savings and checking account in a heartbeat, or the shirt on her back if he'd ask. Jordan's heart answered for her.

"Uma (Yes). " she said.

The smile on Legolas' face made Jordan catch her breath. The Immortal felt she could look at him forever without tiring. She didn't get the chance as his mouth covered hers.

Hungrily, returning kiss for kiss, Jordan surrendered to Legolas' passionate embrace. All around them, the fireflies danced, their soft lights winking in and out. Supported by his arm around her waist, Legolas' free hand left a trail of heat on her skin as he stroked her face; traveling lower, he touched the leaf at her neck and hovered over her bandage before he gently cupped her breast in his palm; his thumb brushed over her hardened nipple, sending tremors of delight thru the Immortal. With a low moan, Jordan deepened the kiss as Legolas continued his slow and deliberate exploration of her mouth and body, in a never-ending kiss that reduced the Immortal to a quivering mass of desire. Wishing to be away from prying eyes as he finally claimed her for his own, Legolas swept her up in his arms and swiftly carried her to her quarters.


	19. Shadows and Firelight

Gregory McGulloch stepped thru the door politely held open by the young man. Nodding his thanks, he surveyed the tastefully lit interior of his unique antique shoppe. Inside, Gregory's assistant, Jacqueline was busy negotiating with an older Indian couple price of an antique he'd recently acquired in Istanbul. Spying her employer, Jacqueline excused herself and left the pair to inspect the piece they were interested in purchasing.

"Monsieur McGulloch, Duncan MacLeod est ici (is here)." She murmured. Gregory nodded and thoughtfully pursed his lips to disguise his tiny smile.

"Où est-il? (where is he)?" he asked, spying Joe in the corner; Gregory smiled in recognition.

"Dans votre bureau (in your office)." She replied. Her eyes narrowed briefly when she noticed Joe watching them. The Watcher flashed her an unapologetic grin. Jacqueline ignored it.

"Feront-ils un achat (will they be making a purchase)?." Gregory asked, a discreet tilt of his head indicating the Indian couple.

"Naturellement ils . Bientôt ; très bientôt (of course they will. Soon; very soon.)" Jacqueline replied. Gregory noticed despite her polite tone and accompanying smile, her eyes remained cold and distant.

"Vous êtes très déterminé ; une qualité que je respecte fortement (You're very determined; a quality I highly respect)." Gregory remarked, studying his employee.

"La détermination peut atteindre son objectif bien (determination can serve one well)." She replied coolly.

"En effet (indeed); merci, Jacqueline." The old gentleman said, dismissing her; nodding once before she left, Jacqueline returned to the couple. The business transaction resumed as the beaming woman nudged her reluctant husband, who was slow to remove his credit card from his jacket pocket. Making his way to the Watcher, Gregory held out his hand.

"Joe Dawson! Good to see you. I was beginning to wonder when you'd come." The proprietor greeted him, a wide grin on his face.

"Thanks - right back at you. Well, I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd check the place out." Joe replied, making a show of looking around.

"And how are you finding things?" the older man inquired.

"Very interesting. I could spend a lot of time here. I've dabbled in antiques myself. Mainly rare books."

"I see. You're very knowledgeable in that area." It was a statement.

"I know a thing or two." The Watcher said modestly.

"Don't we all." Came the veiled reply. "What have you been doing since last we met?" Gregory asked.

"Nothing exciting. I'm tending my bar here in Paris. Stop by anytime and have a drink - on the house."

"How kind of you! I just might do that. You are with Duncan, yes? I cannot imagine him without you close by." Gregory's pleasant face had a knowing look to it. The Watcher studied him. His gut instinct told him the older gentleman was sharper than he let on.

"Really. And why's that?" Joe asked.

"You are good friends. Such are hard to come by these days." The proprietor was interrupted as Methos walked up to them. Beside him stood the young man who held the door open for him.

"Gregory, I'd like you to meet - " Joe began.

"Adam Pierson." Gregory interrupted the Watcher with a twinkle in his eye and a peculiarly delighted smile on his face.

"You two know each other?" the Watcher asked, surprised.

"We've . . . met before." Methos said, giving Gregory an indecipherable look before shaking his hand and pulling the shop owner into a manly hug.

"How've you been, old boy?" Gregory asked, his eyes crinkling with good humor.

"Good. And you?"

"Busy." Gregory said, before turning to the Watcher. He introduced him to the tall young man standing beside the Ancient One.

"Joe – I'd like to introduce you to this fine, young man; this is Caine Spencer, an old friend of ours."

_Interesting._ Joe thought to himself. The men shook hands and murmured the required niceties before Gregory excused himself.

"Well, I believe Duncan is cooling his heels in my office. Please, feel free to look around. If there's anything that captures your interest, I am certain Jacqueline is able to assist you." With that, the pleasant old gentleman disappeared down the hallway that led to his office, leaving the men to browse at their leisure.

"Caine Spencer. I've heard of you." Joe said, studying the young man; similar in height to Duncan and Methos, his golden head was a contrast to the dark Immortals. The Watcher glanced at Methos. The slight smile on the Ancient One's face gave him a mischievous quality that Joe had not seen in quite a while. He wondered what thoughts were brewing in the Old Man's mind.

_Interesting crowd the Highlander's mixing with._ Joe thought, with a touch of pride.

And rightly so, for the Clansman had the friendship and experience of the Oldest Immortal alive at his disposal, and thru him, a connection of sorts to the second oldest Immortal, Caine Spence, known as the Halcyon – a former student of Methos himself and a legend in his own right.

"Good things, I hope." Caine replied. He glanced at his Mentor briefly before meeting Joe's eyes, an easygoing smile on his youthful face.

"Depends on who you ask. Mostly good, in case you're wondering."

"Glad to hear that." Said the soft-spoken Immortal. Watcher and Immortal studied one another, sizing each other up.

"Well, I'll leave you two to catch up. Adam, I'll be in the map section." Joe said. Methos nodded; Caine watched Joe's retreating figure, not speaking until the Watcher was well out of earshot.

"You could've just told me, Caine."

"And miss the expression on your faces? I think not." The younger Immortal returned gleefully.

"Surprised?" Caine asked his friend.

"Yes and no; I almost didn't recognize Gregory." Methos replied.

"Does it matter?"

"No. I suppose it doesn't. I look forward to catching up with him later. Were you able to find anything?" the Ancient asked.

"Maybe. Come look at this; I strongly recommend you take a lot with you." With a mischievous grin, the Halcyon led the way to a glass display case; leaning on his elbows, he studied its contents. Methos followed the direction of his gaze.

"Why these?" the Ancient One asked.

"Because they don't take American Express." Caine said, smirking. Methos smiled and nodded slowly, trusting his former student's suggestion.

Inside the opaque globe, Jordan's image appeared; she looked exactly the same as the day she vanished. Reading her lips, the Highlander made out his name as Jordan called, looking around. Climbing to her feet, she continued to call for him before she started walking. How much time passed? It was difficult for him to gauge; the scene shifted. Duncan watched as Jordan hid behind a tree; he couldn't see what she was looking at. She turned to go when her eyes widened. In fear? Surprise - or both? He couldn't tell.

"What the- !" with a strangled cry, the Highlander winced in sympathy as a. . . thing seized her by the throat and slammed her against the tree. Duncan watched intently as Jordan fought to free herself. Her image blurred as the smoke swirled, revealing another scene.

Jordan was fighting more of the dark 'things' when Duncan saw her attackers fall. She swung around as a new figure stepped towards his student, hiding her from view. The Highlander caught a glimpse of long, blonde hair and a quiver. A peacock was pressed into the leather.

"Duncan!" Concentration broken, the Scot looked up to see Gregory directly across from him, a questioning look in his sharp eyes.

"Gregory. I- I didn't hear you." Duncan mumbled; the Highlander felt like he was talking in a long tunnel. His voice sounded tinny and far away.

"That much was obvious, my boy. I called your name three times! What were you looking at?" the Highlander felt dazed as he watched his friend settle the black cloth back onto the crystal globe; its dark surface revealed nothing.

"What was I looking at? I'm not so sure myself." Duncan replied, touching a hand to his forehead. He felt lightheaded and utterly exhausted.

"You look a little green around the gills, Duncan. Come. Sit down and collect yourself. Tell me how you've been." Gregory led the Immortal to a chair before his desk. Giving the Highlander a gentle push, the old gentleman sat in his leather chair behind the desk. Studying the man before him, Gregory hid his smile.

"What has happened since last we met?" he asked, his face bland.

"So much, Gregory. I'm fine, but Jordan -you do remember her, don't you?"

"Ah yes, the lovely Nurse who was staying with you. I remember her quite well. How is she?"

"I don't know. She's missing."

"Missing you say?" The Highlander nodded.

"She disappeared shortly after your visit. It's going on three months now." The Highlander said grimly.

"Duncan . . . you must feel - "

"Like I'm going mad. I've done nothing since but search for her. The police can't find her, there's no ransom note. She's not checked in with her job, and I don't know what else to do. I've done everything I possibly can do to find her. She hasn't contacted any friends – none of them know her whereabouts. This is totally out of character for her. She literally vanished off the face of the earth." Duncan sighed and began to pace the room like a restless tiger.

"You care a great deal for her." Gregory commented as he watched the Highlander stalk about.

"She's more than a friend."

"You love her." It was a statement, not a question. Duncan turned to face his host.

"Yes." Duncan said. His pacing brought him to a stop before a round shield.

"She means a lot to me - I won't rest until I find her. . . or discover what has happened to her. Whichever comes first." Duncan sat back down in the chair. Stretching his muscular legs out, he studied the tips of his hand made Italian loafers.

#

Much could be said about a person and their personal habits by their intimate living space. Ascending the steps and crossing the balcony, the Elf stepped into Jordan's quarters. The woman in his arms was busy kissing the strong column of the Elf's neck; her lips brushed the line of his jaw, her hands buried in his silky hair. Scanning the room, Legolas' observant gaze took in Jordan's neatly folded clothes lying on a chair beside the table, the fire burned low in the hearth. It pleased him to see her weapons cleaned, the soiled cloths placed in a basket on the floor, neat and ordered. Walking to the side of the bed, the Elf gently set Jordan on her feet.

_This is it . . ._ Jordan thought to herself, looking up at Legolas; her heart thudded almost painfully in her chest. The Immortal felt she was poised on the brink of great significance.

Wanting this moment with every fiber of her being, Jordan was suddenly overcome with shyness; keeping her eyes on Legolas' boots, she trembled with a combination of dread, anticipation and desire. Suddenly, Jordan's thoughts flew back to another night, so long ago, when she offered herself to another. . . the outcome had been less than desirable. Would history repeat itself? The Immortal hesitated, holding within herself a silent debate. The longer she hesitated, the more troubled she became by indecision and self-doubt.

"Mani naa ta, Melamin (what is it, my love)?" Legolas asked, for he didn't need his heightened senses to tell him the woman's ardor had cooled considerably. The desire in her eyes had vanished, to be replaced by . . . doubt?

"I. . . I don't know if I can do this." Jordan said, her voice soft.

"Cannot do what?" Legolas was certain her next words were not what he wanted to hear.

"This -!" exclaimed Jordan gesturing towards the bed.

"You do not wish to join with me?" Legolas' voice was flat.

Not want to join with this splendid example of Elf kind? She would '_join_' him wherever he went! Ever since she laid eyes on him, Jordan fantasized about nothing else. She wanted the Elf more than she could adequately express, for the powerful attraction had grown to such proportions, that the mere thought of the Elf brought a flush of warmth and a rush of color to her cheeks. At night, her vivid imagination obligingly conjured many racy images and thoughts of the Elf that left her trembling in her bed with unrequited desire. Even more than that, Jordan didn't want to experience the humiliation of rejection; though the considerable bulge in the Elf's leggings was a fair indication that rejection was not immediately forthcoming – at least on the Elf's part.

_I want it more than anything_ Jordan was about to reply. Instead, she heard herself say, "I need time."

"Time? Time for what?" Legolas asked, taken aback.

"Time to make sure you really want me for me. I mean, how do I know you're not seeing someone else, or just having your fun? I need time to really think about this, 'cause I won't jump into bed and 'join' with just anybody." Jordan blurted, her words coming out in a heated rush.

Jordan spoke so quickly she wasn't sure if the Elf understood her. Though it pained her greatly to admit her insecurities, Jordan did not want to swallow the bitter pill of disappointment - again. On that ill-fated night, many moons ago, _He_ rebuffed her advances; humiliated, Jordan left everything behind, taking only her passport and the clothes on her back. She boarded the first flight out, and swore she would never return to Paris. For many persons, the City of Light may be the most romantic destination in the world; for Jordan, it held nothing but bad memories, and a lesson well learned to guard her heart. Should things between her and the Elf sour, unlike home, there is no first flight out - no place in Rivendell Jordan could flee to that Legolas would not be able to find her, no place to go to hide away and nurse her emotional wounds.

Jordan was prepared for his anger. She couldn't blame him – not that she'd deliberately set out to tease or mislead him. Flirting was enjoyable – more so when she had no intention whatsoever of following through. With anything. However, things were different with Legolas, for Jordan was often rendered speechless in his presence. The Immortal withdrew into herself as she stepped away from him, wrapping her shift closer around her, gripped by her doubts, torn by conflicting thoughts. Jordan had been told all her life that she was pretty – even described as beautiful by some, but in Rivendell, where Elven beauty eclipsed all else, the Immortal couldn't help but wonder why. Why _her_?

Flattered by the golden Elf's attention, Jordan didn't mind the drugging kisses and fever-inducing touches. Who wouldn't – especially when the Elf was Legolas? Now things were different. Jordan wasn't sure how long she would remain in Middle Earth, and the Immortal knew she was in very real danger of losing to heart (if she hadn't already) to the Elf she fantasized about. Would he do as her mother and all the matrons of her youth warned of, that once a man got what he wanted, the woman was discarded or merely regarded as a pleasure toy? The demon on her shoulder whispered into her ear.

_Legolas isn't a Man . . .why couldn't she have some 'fun'? No one would know. Her parents were long dead. There _

_was no one to hold her to the old fashioned standards she was raised to hold in high regard . . . Eternity to take lovers. Who better to start with than the fabled creature before her - - Not everyone could claim to have bedded an Elf. . ._

Jordan was confused; her head spun with all the possible scenarios that ended with a bruised, or worse, broken heart. Hers. Legolas was speechless. Although her verbiage was completely unfamiliar, he understood its meaning. Was the woman blind?! Could she not see the effect she had on him? Jordan haunted his dreams - filled his thoughts in ways that no other maiden had, or, he suspected, would ever do. By the Valar – this woman could be most frustrating! Wallowing in her doubts, Jordan started when she felt Legolas' warm, strong fingers close around her wrist. Pulling her close, he held the compact beauty against him, grasping her chin gently between his fingers until she reluctantly looked up at him.

"Jordan, Jordan - Elf kind are not fickle with their affections, Melamin." He said.

Despite his soothing words, the Elf could see the shadows of doubt in her green eyes. Eyes he longed to see his reflection in. Legolas knew the only way to dispel the shadows from her eyes and mind would be to show her in no uncertain terms that his words and feelings were true.

"I see you before me, and none other, Jordan Waters." He murmured before he kissed her roughly.

"You alone are the cause of this." Legolas placed her hand over his swollen elfhood, as he moved his hips suggestively against her hand. Jordan blushed and tried to pull her hand back. The Wood Elf wouldn't allow it; instead, he held her hand in place

"Don't you trust me, Melamin?" he asked again.

Jordan opened her mouth to answer, only to close it quickly. The Elf stifled a white hot flash of disappointment as he released her hand. Surely they couldn't have reached this level of . . . understanding without some measure of trust and feeling between them; apparently he was mistaken about that as well.

_I must court the lady's favor. . . he reminded himself. _The Elf who never missed a shot wondered how to go about courting.He had not courted in Ages.

_Damn it all to Mordor and back – why couldn't it be simple?_

No matter; he would wait for her. The rock-hard consequence of their love play was almost unbearable. His desire flamed like wildfire; he would allow her time to decide. Legolas fervently hoped she would not require much. The Wood Elf wanted more. Much more. Tasting the sweetness of her kisses, feeling her body beneath his hands and her enthusiastic response – only to be denied succour, would be most . . . disappointing. It took a great amount of self-control to pull back.

"How much time will you need?" Legolas asked tersely.

_How much time will I need?_ Jordan mused, studying her toes. She remained silent so long, the Elf was convinced

she was not going to answer; he sighed inwardly.

"Come to me when you are ready." Legolas said through gritted teeth as he turned to go.

The Wood Elf stalked towards the balcony, his hands balled into tight fists at his side. The emotions and frustration churning within the Mirkwood Elf deem he leave post haste; needing release, he had every intention of going on his own Orc hunt.

Clarity. Something within Jordan shifted. The Immortal was tired – tired of the 'what if' game. Tired of guarding her heart, tired of expecting to be hurt, of seeing others find happiness and fulfillment - while she looked the other way, pretending all was well. If mortals with their limited time on earth possessed the courage to love and love again in the wake of devastating heartache and heartbreak, could she do any less? The Immortal considered her options.

_Don't let him go . . ._ Jordan looked up.

_Live the dream . . ._ her heart whispered. The Elf was already at the steps.

"_Legolas. . ."_ it was hardly more than a whisper, but he heard her.

The Elf paused. Turning back towards the Immortal, Legolas waited to see what she would do. His blue eyes studied her face, trying to decipher her thoughts, for he could plainly see her indecision. Before she lost her nerve, Jordan went to him. She looked up at the Elf and gave him a shy, tentative smile, trying not to flush beneath his steady, piercing gaze. Reaching for his hand, Jordan slowly curled her fingers around his and quietly led him back inside.


	20. Thru a Glass, Darkly

Settling into the leather chair, Gregory folded his hands atop his polished desk and calmly regarded the man seated across from him. Amusement danced within his eyes as he beheld the determined set of his guest's chiseled jaw. It disappeared when Duncan looked up at his host and gave him a wry smile. When Gregory reached up to scratch the side of his nose, the Highlander noticed the band on his host's ring finger, for the stone winked at him from its gold setting.

"Nice ring." Duncan commented, wanting to change the subject. He did not wish to burden Gregory with his concerns.

"Yes, isn't it?" Gregory gazed fondly at the ring on his finger, a wistful smile on his face. The red gem glowed as if lit from within. "It was given to me by a dear friend; why, every time I look at it, it eases my heart – gives me strength."

"I could use some of that right about now." Duncan muttered under his breath.

"Pardon?" Gregory asked, peering at the Clansman.

"I was thinking I could use some strength myself right about now. So, how's business?" asked the Highlander.

"Strength you have in great store, Duncan. You need not be told that." Gregory said, giving the Highlander a meaningful look. Duncan didn't know how to reply. What could the older man mean by that cryptic remark? He wasn't allowed to dwell on the question, for his host spoke again.

"To answer your initial question, business has been quite good. Speaking of which, at this moment, I believe your friends are browsing around my shoppe."

"They're probably also wondering where I am." said Duncan, rising to his feet. Gregory stood as well, and came around from behind his desk to walk the Highlander out. Reaching the door, Duncan hesitated.

"Gregory – I didn't mean to poke around, but I did." He confessed.

"I see; did you find anything worth your effort?" Gregory inquired. The Highlander couldn't tell if he was angry or amused.

"That . . . globe in there. . ."

"Yes – what about it?"

"What _is_ it?" Duncan asked

"Why, its my crystal ball, Duncan." Gregory said with a smile. The Highlander nodded uncertainly. His host was certainly in a strange mood.

"Right." The Clansman replied, humoring him. A knock on the door drew their attention. After a second, Methos poked his head in.

"Is this a private meeting?"

"Not anymore." Duncan muttered under his breath. He smiled when Methos shot him a snide look.

"Come in, come in" Gregory invited, waving the Immortal inside. Methos entered, followed closely by Joe.

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, MacLeod." The Ancient one said pleasantly as he passed by.

"Nice digs, Gregory." Joe commented as he walked in; immediately, his gaze was drawn to the partition, for its vibrant hues were the only splash of color in the otherwise austere room. The rich and variegated embroidery was unlike anything he'd ever seen; it also looked very expensive. He did a double take.

"Hey, is that really - "

"Gold thread? Yes. Nice, isn't it? I can see you're a very observant man of discriminating taste." Gregory replied with a smile.

"It's part of my job." The Watcher said with a shrug of his shoulders.

Joe glanced around the large room. Scattered everywhere were weapons of war; the many pieces of ancient armor gave the impression of a medieval armory, rather than an antique dealer's private office. Prominently displayed were several shields mounted on the wall. Two were round; of the two, one was simple, dark and foreboding; its weathered surface was blackened as though it had been scorched by a terrible fire or smelted by some diabolical force. The deep scars only served to enhance its savage and menacing quality. It sported no decorative embellishments or any aesthetically pleasing design. If the shield alone was caused one to shudder with dread, Joe was in no hurry to see who it wielded it.

The other shield, in comparison, was its exact opposite - two different sides of the same coin. Round in shape is where the resemblance ended, it's surface reinforced with decorative plates of metal overlaying the rich, mahogany hued wood. It too, was battered and weathered as well. Though extraordinarily well preserved, and restored to near-mint condition, the Watcher surmised the shield's current condition was but a shadow of its former glory.

Joe could tell it was not a reproduction, for the nicks and dents marring its surface proved its quality. Bearing such battle scars, it had undoubtedly protected its bearer, and seen him thru many conflicts. Upon closer inspection, around the boss of the noble shield, the Watcher could discern seven embossed stars. Both circular shields were noteworthy and deserved a moment of pause, however, the shield that caught the Watcher's attention was of such extraordinary craftsmanship and design, that Joe seriously doubted it had ever seen war. He studied the beautiful details, wondering if it's unusual design was functional as well as ornamental. Surely something of such elegance and refined beauty couldn't be anything but a showpiece - something to discuss and admire over after dinner drinks.

Where the first two shields were round, and meant to be worn on the forearm, providing coverage for the upper body, the third was full length – a body shield – and vastly different. Its regal shape kite-like, vaguely resembling a diamond with notched sides. Its upper half had a pointed tip and sides that gently flared out, then rounded back in. The graceful edgings were likened to that of a dove spreading its wings in flight, its lower half an elongated, inverted triangle that tapered to a sharp end, much like an arrowhead.

With that lethal end, Joe could very well imagine it being used in an attack as well as a defense, for the shield could spear a foe, or be driven into the ground to act as a buffer against arrows and spears. To look upon it, one would say the full length shield was fashioned from gold; however, the Watcher knew the precious metal to be too soft and unable to withstand the stress of battle, nor could it shelter its bearer from a viciously delivered blow. This was cunningly crafted and beautifully fashioned, wrought with organic swirls and vinery - pleasing to the eye and functional – a work of art.

Joe was thankful he had not been born in the age of chivalry, for the 20th Century and all its modern conveniences suited him just fine. He explored the rest of the room, occasionally stopping at a display case here or by a curio stand there to study the contents. One display in particular caught his eye, its fascinating items left him wondering about the history behind the pieces: a rust encrusted lump likened to that of a…spent bullet? Odd. A horn of some sort cloven into two distinctive pieces. What was its purpose? Powder? No, it couldn't have been, for guns were not available in that era. Water maybe? On closer inspection, he decided not, for both ends were open. One end would have to be sealed in order for it to even hold a sip of water. A hunting or battle horn? Perhaps.

Along with the shattered horn was a coil of delicate, slender rope, and a beautifully cut crystal phial; the Watcher guessed at one point in time the phial may have contained a precious oil or perfume. Joe wondered why such ordinary items would be placed under protective glass and hidden away. What meaning did they hold for the Proprietor? Joe shrugged; a body was entitled to his eccentricities. Continuing his survey of the room, the Watcher's gaze rested on the hanging tapestry.

"Is there a secret passage behind that curtain as well, Gregory?" Joe asked with a chuckle.

"Ask but the proper question, Mr. Dawson." The Proprietor said as he paused for effect.

"Is it the Lady or the dragon behind the curtain?" Gregory said, smiling at the Watcher's bemused expression.

"Actually, it's a crystal ball. Would you like to see?" he continued. Joe glanced at Methos; the Old Man smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"Why not?" The Watcher asked. He was game.

First Hugh Fitzcairn, now Gregory; leave it to the Highlander to encounter and associate with quirky characters in his long life's path. Beckoning the others to follow, Gregory made his way to the partition and drew it aside. Eager to take another look at the dark crystal ball, Duncan followed closely behind the Watcher; Methos hung back, lingering in the entryway. The Ancient One touched the glittering embroidery on the partition; his fingers absently tracing the gold threads as he observed the Highlander and his Watcher thru hooded lids.

Joe glanced around the room. From his vantage point, he could see the single shaft of light emanating from the ceiling as the sole source of illumination. It highlighted the pillar dominating the center of the room. Curiously, despite the room's small size, the light did not reach the corners, which were hidden in shadow. Joe's attention shifted back to his companions, wishing he hadn't been the first to enter. There was precious little room left to stand comfortably.

Behind the Watcher, Duncan's pulse quickened, for now that the Immortal Sorcerer's knowledge had been harnessed, the Highlander could sense an aura radiating from the globe, a pulsating beat that reached out and ensnared, wrapping invisible tentacles of power around the Highlander.

"Mac." Joe said under his breath.

Instead of having the desired effect, Duncan leaned forward, looking over the Watcher's shoulder. Feeling claustrophobic in the dim, windowless room, Joe stepped forward. So did the Highlander. Leaning on his cane, the Watcher gave the Immortal a not so discrete nudge with his elbow, hoping Duncan would get the hint.

"Mac!" Joe whispered hoarsely.

"What?"

"You're crowding me, damn it! Move back, would ya?"

"Sorry, Joe. I wanted to get a closer look." Duncan said. The Watcher grumbled, then moved so the Highlander had a better view.

Gregory cleared his throat to disguise his amusement. Glancing at Methos, Gregory saw the Immortal's face gave nothing away, his dark eyes inscrutable as he slouched against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Watching the Eldest's eyes, Gregory slowly lifted the black cloth.

#

Leaving the balcony doors open, Jordan hesitantly led Legolas into the room. For a moment, she almost lost her resolve, but she brushed aside her fears and turned to face the Elf. Elf and Immortal stood before one other, their gaze intent, the silence between them broken occasionally by the fire crackling in the hearth. Jordan stared up at the Elf, not knowing what to say, not wanting to ruin the moment. His eyes held her spellbound, mesmerizing her, pinning her where she stood.

_Now I know what they mean by 'like a deer caught in the headlights'_ she thought to herself.

Jordan was caught between her conflicting emotions. The Immortal was afraid to say or do anything, fearing, the spell would be broken, the moment ruined. All that she knew was that she wanted him - needed him. No more words, she decided. Tonight would be the night. Yet her fear of rejection, humiliation…

_What was I thinking?!_ Jordan asked herself.

She'd never seduced anyone before – at least successfully, she amended. Jordan stifled the memory that threatened to undermine her courage. A thousand thoughts raced thru her mind, yet one loomed above all others. She wanted Legolas. Of that she was certain. Legolas stood before her, patiently waiting and just a touch wary. The woman before him had changed her mind once too many a time for him tonight, thoroughly confusing and frustrating him, straining the superlative control Legolas – and Elfkind for that matter – possessed.

Elves, unlike Men, do not easily lose control of their emotions or actions. However, Legolas knew this woman could very well make him come close to it; she drove him to distraction. One moment, Jordan mirrored his feelings and desires, her eyes reflecting what he wanted to see in them - in the next heartbeat, her eyes would cloud over, closing her thoughts and heart to him. It would be simpler, if not saner, for Legolas to allow Jordan to make the first move - rather than risk misinterpreting matters yet again. Studying her face, he watched the indecision, confusion, doubt and hope flit across her face before she finally reached a decision. A ghost of a smile touched his lips when he once again saw desire reflected in her eyes. Determined not to do or say anything to would make her shy away, Legolas kept his hands to his sides, forcing her to take the initiative.

The Immortal licked her lips nervously, undecided how to interpret the fact Legolas kept his hands at his sides. Timidly, she reached up with both hands and lightly rested them on the Elf's broad shoulders. He felt so solid . . . so real. And he remained so still. Standing on her tiptoes, Jordan couldn't quite reach him, for he kept his golden head front and center. It appeared he wasn't going to help her, either.

_Hmmm. If that was the way he wanted it . . ._ Jordan thought to herself.

Jordan wished she kept her copy of the Kama Sutra; she had heard about the notorious love manual, yet never bothered to see for herself what the fuss what about; instead, the woman asked Collette if her friend had read it, which was a mistake - or was it? A week later, the Immortal received the book as a gag gift from her blonde friend, which would not be so bad, had it not been hand delivered by the blind date that showed up unexpectedly on her doorstep. To make matters worse, he claimed Collette suggested he wear nothing but a red tie and a smile. Sometimes her friend was lacking in subtlety.

After the awkward introduction, Jordan and her blind date went out for drinks and appetizers, under the guise of getting to know each other better; she felt nothing for him, and was quite ready to end the evening. Excusing herself to use the restroom, Jordan quickly texted a coworker with explicit instructions. Returning to their table, Jordan and her date chatted easily but had very little in common. The Immortal knew her date - bless his heart, was doing his best to impress her; fortified with two beers, he insisted they join the other couples slow dancing to the soulful jazz music. Pulling the reluctant woman out of her seat, he was about to fold her into his arms when Jordan's mobile phone rang; Jordan spoke briefly and ended the call, informing her date the hospital was calling her in to work. At her doorstep, after an uncomfortable and hurried handshake goodnight, Jordan stepped inside and closed the door, glad to be home. In the privacy of her bedroom, the Immortal debated with herself at length before finally deciding to take a peek. After all, her mother and the matrons of her youth insisted that 'nice girls' – _proper ladies_ - learned all they needed to know in the marriage bed - and _not_ until then; yet curiosity had Jordan leafing thru the pages. One look at the colorful, glossy pages graphically depicting the various positions possible during sexual intercourse had Jordan blushing straight to her toes. The tome lay buried in her sock drawer for months until the Immortal gave it away as a bridal shower gift for a co-worker's daughter. Perhaps she'd acted a bit too hastily. Tilting her head back to look at him, the Elf's face was expressionless, but Jordan saw the unmistakable interest and amusement in his eyes, as well as the unspoken challenge.

_Fine._ she thought.

Undeterred, the Immortal reached up and framed the Elf's face with her hands, angling Legolas' head down so he would look at her. He didn't resist. Taking that as a good sign, Jordan took his hand and rubbed her cheek against his palm, savoring the warmth against her face. She glanced up at him; except for his blue eyes following her every move, the Elf could've been a statue. Maintaining eye contact, Jordan touched her lips to his wrist; she flicked it lightly with the tip of her tongue, and slowly drew it across Legolas' wrist, feeling the beat of his pulse, noting the subtle flaring of his nostrils. She was getting somewhere.

Taking his hands in hers, Jordan placed her fingers over his, and brought them up to cup her face; for a brief moment, she closed her eyes, feeling slightly foolish. This was harder than she imagined; the Immortal thought about the romance novels she and Collette would giggle over during a quick break in a bookstore as they mall trolled.

Breasts. Aren't males always fixated on breasts? Jordan kept her eyes on Legolas' as she moved his hands slowly down her neck. . . to her shoulders . . . to her chest. Placing his hands on her breasts, Jordan felt a twinge of relief as his fingers – ever so lightly - attempted to cup them. He was breathing just a little faster. Encouraged, the Immortal allowed his thumbs to brush over her nipples. Once . . . twice, before she grasped his wrists and moved his hands to her rib cage and down, following the curve of her waist.

The Elf didn't release his hold. Gently but firmly, Jordan returned the Elf's hands to his side. Legolas wasn't the only one affected, for the Immortal's breathing was starting to quicken as well. Releasing his wrists, Jordan twined a hand in his pale hair and gently pulled his head down. Framing his face with her other hand, Jordan whispered a kiss across his jaw, so light and fleeting that the Elf was uncertain if he had imagined it. With her fingers, Jordan touched his ear, lightly tracing its contours.

Legolas closed his eyes and swallowed hard, forcing himself to remain still and not tremble beneath her touch. Jordan saw that the Elf's eyes were closed; the muscles in his jaw clenched. A slow grin spread across her face. She was starting to enjoy this. Slanting her head up, Jordan softly traced his lips with the tip of her tongue; the Immortal was rewarded when the Elf's lips parted. Carefully, slowly, Jordan touched her lips to his. His response was immediate.

_Hallelujah!_ she thought.

Crushing her to him, Legolas lips covered hers; his tongue stroked her lips before pushing past. Jordan willingly parted her lips, welcoming his relentless plundering of her mouth. The kiss continued - long and drugging until the Immortal didn't know which way was up or down; his mouth stripping away every defense Jordan possessed. With each velvety stroke of his tongue, one by one, he eliminated all her doubts. She tasted the hunger on his lips, yet he continued to hold back. What would it take for the Elf to lose control? Jordan wondered. She didn't dwell on the thought long, instead preferring to lose herself in his kiss.

When Legolas did finally release her, they were both breathing hard, and Jordan felt unsteady on her feet. Just a little. Yet the Elf still kept his hands at his side, still in control. Legolas watched Jordan with an intensity so fierce, it would've terrified her, had her own need not made her oblivious to everything save this moment. Dazed, the Immortal touched her fingers to her swollen lips; she looked up at the Elf, wide eyed. She wanted more. Unable to look away from him, the Immortal's hands went to her robe; she began to open it when Legolas' hands covered hers, stilling them.

Rooted in place by his blue eyes, the Elf slowly eased Jordan's robe away from her shoulders until it fell to the ground in a silken whisper. Her shift followed soon after, leaving her bare and vulnerable to his mouth and hands; Legolas took her hand and drew her forward. Stepping out of her nightgown, Jordan blushed from head to toe, resisting the urge to cover herself with her hands. It was a night of many firsts for the Immortal. Head held high, she stood completely nude before the Elf, wondering what he was thinking, if he was pleased with her so far.

Legolas slowly walked around the Immortal, admiring her body, which was similar yet so unlike that of the Elven lovers he had taken. Where his lovers were tall, Jordan was petite; without her heeled boots, Jordan's head barely reached his chin. The Elf's taste in maidens usually ran towards those fair or fiery of hair, yet there was something alluring about this dark Daughter of Man, whose black hair shone in the firelight, contrasting with her pearly skin, so unlike the flawless porcelain of the Elves. Rosy brown buds tipped her high, full breasts, her nipples proudly erect, beckoning him to explore their delights; Jordan's limbs were perfectly formed and shaped, her flesh toned but not muscled, attesting to her physical lifestyle; this maiden definitely did not spend her days employed in needlework, nor was she a Lady of idle leisure. Legolas' hands reached out to trace the slender dip of her waist, stroking the soft skin . . . following its curves down to her hips.

Jordan closed her eyes, concentrating on the feel of his lips as he placed soft kisses along her neck, alternately sucking and nipping her sensitized flesh. Bending his golden head, the Elf ran his hands lightly over her shoulders, down her arms, carefully avoiding her bandages . . . he encircled her wrists, felt her racing pulse point. Lacing his fingers with hers, Legolas studied them. Small hands that are equally capable of wielding a sword. And killing. Stepping back, he studied the exotic beauty of the woman before him, pleased with what he saw . . . what would soon be his.

The Immortal couldn't help the fluttering of a thousand caged butterflies in her stomach when Legolas' elegant fingers lightly brushed over the dark curls at the juncture of Jordan's thighs. Grasping her hips, Legolas pulled her closer to him; the coolness of the night and the texture of his tunic against her bare skin arousing in its own way, even as the Elf's erection pressed eagerly against her. Legolas tilted Jordan's chin up before his lips claimed hers in a teasing kiss that hinted at the promise of the pleasure yet to come. The Immortal was on the verge of sensory overload. If their love play ended at that moment, Jordan wouldn't mind. . . until she recovered and wanted more, that is. Pulling away from her, Legolas gave a soft chuckle when she made a small noise of protest.

"Patience, Melamin." He murmured.

Taking her hands in his, Legolas raised them and slowly kissed one fingertip at a time, gently suckling the sensitive pads. Jordan caught her bottom lip between her teeth, her excitement mounting. Was it her imagination, or did his blue eyes shine brighter? Legolas placed her hands on the front of his tunic; the Immortal needed no further encouragement. In her eagerness, Jordan's trembling fingers fumbled with the clasps of his tunic. She forced herself to slow down and not rip his tunic open. Legolas smiled and reached up to help her.

Gently swatting his hands away, Jordan finally succeeded in unlatching the clasps, and was rewarded with his skin beneath

her fingertips. Not a strand of hair was on his chest. She liked that his body was clean and smooth, hard and soft; the perfect blending of opposites. Yin and yang. The Immortal was hardly able to believe she was touching him openly – and freely. Legolas' velvety skin quivered beneath her fingertips. Shrugging out of his clothes, Jordan's arms went around Legolas' neck as he captured her mouth once more and gave her another mind numbing kiss. Trailing his fingers down her back, the Elf cupped her buttocks and lifted her; Jordan locked her legs around Legolas' waist as they continued to kiss. The Immortal gave a small gasp of surprise when she felt the cool texture of the wall against her back. Gently sucking his bottom lip, she raised her head and gave him a sultry smile.

"Naughty Elf." She whispered seductively into his ear before licking the pointed tip.

In response, the Elf pinned her against the wall and claimed her mouth with another searing kiss, his body moving against hers in an erotic rhythm that sent a rush of heat to her core. Jordan's head fell back against the wall, offering her neck to the Elf's questing lips. Emboldened, the Immortal slowly relaxed and tightened her legs around the Mirkwood Prince, moving her hips against his, rubbing up and down against him in a slow grind . . . answering his body's call, feeling the large, hard bulge of his elfhood thru his breeches . . . desperately wanting for him to remove the offending garment.

"Legolas. . ." Jordan breathed. The Immortal felt the wall fall away as he turned toward the bed.

"Melamin, I have plans for you." Legolas whispered in her ear. She couldn't wait.

Sitting on the bed with Jordan in his lap, Legolas kicked off his boots before standing effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing. Jordan ran her hands over his chest, back and arms, hungrily kissing whatever skin she could reach; gently unlocking her legs, Legolas slid her slowly down his front into a standing position – making sure she felt his arousal all the while. His breath caught in his chest as he gazed at her; Jordan's eyes were dilated, the dark pupils almost eclipsing the green of her eyes, her lips swollen and reddened from his kisses.

This woman was the cause of many a restless night, the subject of erotic thoughts - and blessed Valar, had him eager as if it were his first coupling, for in a sense it was – with a mortal. With over two millenia's worth of experience to draw upon, the Elf fully intended to show Jordan what it was like to be loved by him. The Prince's hands roamed over Jordan's body, his hot mouth leisurely explored hers, probing and tasting her . . . Legolas' caresses were sending her into a fevered frenzy. Every nerve ending in Jordan's body felt alive, charged with electricity; watching her face, he gave Jordan's hands free reign to roam freely over his chest and torso, letting her set the pace.

Legolas was beyond model perfect. Jordan ran her hands over his body, enjoying the feel of his soft skin, watching in fascination as his muscles glided beneath her hands; his smooth chest and wide shoulders were perfectly sculpted, tapering to a narrow waist and hips. Jordan raked her nails lightly over Legolas' defined abdominal muscles. Resting her hands on the Elf's hips, Jordan pressed a kiss to his chest. Looking up at the Elf, the Immortal flicked one nipple with her tongue, then the other, smiling when it stood at attention. Legolas' head was tilted slightly back; eyes closed, his jaw clenched as he held himself still, trembling ever so slightly. With a wicked grin, Jordan stood on tiptoe and explored the strong column of the Elf's neck, alternately biting and suckling the sensitive skin with moist, nibbling kisses before the Immortal moved across his chest.

The Elf fought back the urge to take Jordan then and there, restraining himself with much difficulty when her hand tentatively brushed over his swollen elfhood, his erection straining against its confines. Sensing she was ready to go further, Legolas lifted Jordan and placed her on the center of the bed, leaving a trail of fiery kisses before he stood. Looking down at the woman before him, he loosed the ties of his breeches, smiling when she kept her eyes averted, not quite meeting his eyes - studiously avoiding open glances at his groin, yet furtively stealing glances, her cheeks flushing in response. It amused him. One minute she boldly explored his body, the next she was a shy maiden. Which was the real Jordan? The Elf wondered; it would be his distinct pleasure, and every intention to find out. Walking to the table, Legolas draped his leggings over a chair, and then banked the fire – it was not needed; he would keep her warm.

As he turned away, Jordan took the opportunity to scramble under the covers; her heart beating a wild staccato in her chest. She sat up, holding the sheet over her breasts; perhaps it was a trick of the light, or her imagination - but the Elf really seemed to glow, illuminated somehow from within. Magic, she thought, watching wordlessly as he placed his clothes and her shift over the chair, then banked the fire. Her eyes fastened hungrily upon his person. Looking at him naked would have satisfied her . . . for a while; not an ounce of fat was on his lithe body, his buttocks tight and round, his thighs long and muscular. Legolas. Perfection personified—from the braids at his temples, to the shape of his feet, he was poetry in motion. Michelangelo's David is a gross caricature in comparison to this magnificent Elven Adonis before her. In her line of work, the Immortal had seen all body types: young, old, fit, flabby and everything in between. This Elf, however, is the avatar - the incarnation of strength, youth and beauty. Tonight he was hers, her angel of the night. Not knowing what she'd done to deserve a moment of his time, Jordan fervently thanked the powers that be. It was glaringly obvious that sightseeing was not all that would happen tonight, and Jordan shivered in anticipation.

Legolas silently made his way back to the bed; he waited, his blue eyes intense. The ample length of his elfhood jutted out, hard and proud. Wordlessly, Jordan reached for him, the bed sheet falling away from her breasts. Wanting to see all of her, the Wood Prince drew the sheets away, uncovering the Immortal. Stretching out beside the woman, the Elf nuzzled her neck, making her giggle breathlessly as he discovered she was slightly ticklish there; the leaf of Lórien lay in the hollow of her throat. Legolas paused, touching it gently with his fingers before he continued to kiss his way down her body, caressing . . . nibbling, carefully avoiding her injuries.

A consummate lover, Legolas used Jordan's gasps and moans as his guide, nuzzling the valley between her breasts; his hands skillfully massaged the fleshy orbs as his tongue teased the sensitive tips, feeling like rough velvet on her breasts as he suckled and laved her nipples. And his hands . . . oh, his hands! Jordan buried her own hands in the pale, silken fall of his hair as he continued to make love to only her breasts. She couldn't begin to imagine the feelings he'd ignite if the Elf applied his searing skills to the rest of her body. Jordan was aware of nothing save those magic hands, roaming freely along her body, his tongue and lips mercilessly exploring every inch of her flesh, his warm breath causing goose bumps to rise. As he went lower, Legolas felt her tense, her thighs held tightly together. Rising upon his elbow, Legolas kissed Jordan's lips gently as he whispered against her mouth, "Trust me, Melamin."

With his mouth he worshipped her face; his hand cupped and kneaded her breasts, trailing down to her side with just the right amount of pressure, slowly cajoling her body into relaxing under his touch. The Elf's hands lovingly caressed her hips, acquainting himself with every contour, every curve, before hovering over her dark curls. Jordan bit her lip then gasped when she felt his fingers delve into her, parting her secret folds. Finding the sensitive spot, Jordan whimpered softly as Legolas slowly rubbed and pressed, rocking his fingers oh so slowly, smiling as the Immortal's back arched in response. The Elf's mouth left her face to explore her body, staking his claim on every inch of her flesh as his fingers gently massaged her core. Legolas inserted a finger, then another, skillfully moving them in a torturously slow rhythm, increasing the pressure as Jordan moaned, her hands knotting in the sheets as her body was engulfed in pleasure.

_Ohhh. My-!_ Jordan's mind couldn't string an intelligent thought together.

"Legolas…" she panted breathlessly. The Elf's tongue dipped into her mouth once again, demanding . . . exploring . . . claiming.

"Melamin?" Jordan's nails were digging into the Elf's back; instead of discomfort, it only aroused him more.

"Please…" Jordan couldn't take much more of this sweet torture.

"Please what?" He teased her mercilessly, continuing his attentive ministrations.

Words escaped her. Jordan gave up trying to speak; instead she rode wave after wave of sensation, going higher and higher, towards what she didn't know, her body writhing beneath his masterful fingers. She was aware of nothing, save his hands and mouth—tasting. . . touching. . . . teasing . . . squeezing.

"You will call out for me again 'ere this night is over" he promised her.

_. . yes, oh yes. . .!_ was all Jordan could think.

Kissing his way back up to her lips, Legolas knelt between her legs and ran his hands along her inner thighs; grasping behind her knees, he pulled her down in the bed. The Elf placed Jordan's leg then the other around his waist, open her to receiving his engorged member eagerly straining towards her. Jordan didn't need further encouragement; holding the Elf tight between her thighs, she closed her eyes, reveling in the strength of the Elf, as she gave herself over to the sensations he evoked from her. Long fingers that unerringly aimed a bow expertly found and caressed her sensitive spot, eliciting more throaty moans and sharp gasps of pleasure from the Immortal. Growing bolder, Jordan reached for him; he was so hard . . soft . . . hot . . . swollen . . . hers. Running her hands lightly over his member, Jordan gently squeezed the length of him, from base to tip, brushing away the clear, slightly sticky bead of moisture that appeared. Legolas held himself still, enjoying the sensation as the woman cupped his sac in one hand, feeling the velvety skin. Her fingertips lightly tracing the membrane in the center before gently cradling the weight of his family jewels in the palm of her hand, feeling the skin contract in response to the intimate stimuli. The woman smiled to herself when the Elf groaned and buried his face against her neck; Legolas' breaths were just a little harsh, just a little faster. Lowering her legs to either side of him, the woman grasped her lover's hips, nudging him forward to cup his tight buttocks; she traced her fingers up his back, feeling the sculpted muscles twitch in response. Leaning on his forearms, Legolas gradually shifted his weight onto her, allowing her to adjust to the feel and mass of his body. Kissing her eyelids, then her nose, he claimed her mouth in a possessive kiss, leaving her breathless.

"Open your eyes, Melamin." he whispered; her eyes fluttered open. Panting, Jordan's heart was racing.

"Do you trust me?" He asked, tenderly kissing her mouth.

His fingertips smoothed back the hair at her temples; his eyes, oh those blue, blue eyes . . . Jordan smiled up at him, her hands lightly touching his perfect features before gently tracing the sensitive tips of his ears, feeling him tremble in response. The Immortal considered his question. Did she trust Legolas –yes, she trusted him with her life, but can she trust the Elf with her heart?

Looking into her eyes, Legolas could have burst into song when he saw the answer in the green depths. Jordan kissed him softly, wrapping her legs around his hips in silent answer.

"You wouldn't be here if I didn't." She replied softly, a teasing smile on her lips.

Running his hands across her shoulders and down her slender arms, Legolas lingered over the bandage on her upper arm, gently kissing the dressing as he interlaced their fingers. Raising her arms above Jordan's head, with one hand, the Mirkwood Prince held both Jordan's wrists firmly place. That simple movement caused the woman's breasts to jut forward, leaving her ribcage exposed as well; feeling vulnerable, the Immortal attempted to free her hands, but stilled her efforts at the Golden Elf's mock stern glance. Legolas lifted himself away, raising his body just above hers. Jordan frowned at the loss of contact; she rather enjoyed the feel of his skin, and the weight of his body on hers. Licking her lips, Jordan took a deep breath and attempted to relax, her body moving of its own volition as Legolas' free hand continued downward, caressing her breasts; bending his fair head, alternately laving and sucking her nipples, the Elf filled his mouth with the soft flesh, gently biting and kissing her breasts. Legolas leisurely reached down, splaying his fingers across her flat belly, then, dipped down, separating her intimate folds; Legolas unerring found and massaged his lover's swollen nub, varying the pressure and sensations he evoked - allowing himself a satisfied smile as her body arched in response beneath him. Jordan's eyes fluttered closed and she bit her lower lip as another spasm of pleasure rendered her speechless. The Wood Elf dipped two fingers inside his lover . . . testing, pleased to find her so wet and ready for him. It was time.

_Now, Melamin – you will be mine_ . . .

Legolas' turgid member was poised at Jordan's entrance; knowing his generous size would cause her pain, he slowly pushed the tip of his elfhood in; as he entered, her tight walls enveloped him in her hot, velvety warmth.

_So wet . . . so ready . . . uhhhnnnn!_

Legolas' breath left his lungs with a hiss; the Elf closed his eyes, wanting to bury his member fully into her warm vise, but determined to prolong the experience. He slowly withdrew, and then just as slowly pushed just the tip of his Elfhood back in, smiling as Jordan arched her hips in an attempt to take in more of him.

_Melamin . . . _

Slowly, oh so slowly he rubbed against her pleasure nub as he inched in and out, sinking into her just a little more at a time before he withdrew, never ceasing the exquisite friction. The Mirkwood Prince continued the delicious torment, alternately teasing and pleasing both of them. Jordan's moans and cries of pleasure were louder and more frequent, inflaming the Elf; her trembling legs gripped his hips harder, then woman locked her heels, attempting to pull him closer. Legolas felt his control slowly slip away. He was more than ready to sink his full length into her ready heat. Gritting his teeth, the cords of the Elf's neck were visible as he resisted the overwhelming need to complete this act of love, determined to please her.

"Legolas..!" Jordan panted.

"Yes, Melamin?" he answered harshly; the strain of holding back for her sake was visible in the Elf's face. Jordan didn't _want_ him to hold back anymore.

"I …need… you.." she whimpered, needing to have him – all of him within her; Jordan felt she would soon go mad, the

pleasure was so extreme, it bordered on pain.

"You need me to what?" he whispered thickly before claiming her mouth in a kiss.

Wanting all of him, Jordan struggled half heartedly to free her hands from his grip, drawing a low chuckle from him.

Legolas placed his free hand at the small of her back, lifting her hips.

"Legolas-!" Looking at the woman beneath him, the naked desire on her face spurred him on.

Delving deeper, he felt the tiny barrier that prevented him from fully sinking into her sweet warmth. His blue eyes burned brighter as he looked down at her. There was no turning back now. With a groan, Legolas pulled back then thrust fully into her, breaking thru the thin membrane; the sudden, sharp, intense pain stole Jordan's breath away. He was so big, so thick. The Immortal felt she was being split in two, her body arched and twisted as she tried to get away from the Elf, certain she could not take all of him, but Legolas held her firmly in place, pressing her deeper into the feather mattress, impaling her as his strokes became longer and harder.

"Lle phu amin (you are mine), Jordan!" He ground out between thrusts.

The pain receded, only to be replaced with intensifying pleasure as his hands and body guided Jordan in the rhythm as old as time itself. Releasing her hands, he grasped her body, angling her just so, as she instinctively responded to the feelings his turgid member against her sensitive core evoked. Jordan breathlessly whispered encouragement in his ear, exciting the Elf to no end. Jordan clung to him, digging her nails into the muscles of his back, biting his shoulder hard enough to leave a mark as she pulled his head down to hers. It was her turn to smile when she felt him tremble; hearing his sharp intake of breath as her tongue lightly traced the contours of his ear, she gently nipped the sensitive point as she breathed softly into his ear as the Elf continued to move above her.

Freedom. The incredible sense of liberation. Unthinking . . . only feeling. They continued to move in time together; their tempo increased . . . skin gliding smoothly against skin as they soared towards fulfillment. Even if she tried, Jordan couldn't describe the feelings she was experiencing. She would gladly fight a thousand Orcs for a night with him. Nothing else mattered except this moment with Legolas, her body attuned with and responding to his. Legolas' thrusts became more forceful as he buried his turgid member deeper within her warm, velvety vise. Intimate muscled squeezed and released his elfhood in time with his movements, causing him to groan against her as he angled her lower body again to vary her pleasure.

Jordan would've died of embarrassment if she could see how wantonly she writhed beneath him, encouraging the Elf, calling out his name repeatedly and begging him for sweet release. Legolas was taking her to heights she hadn't dared possible, reserved only in print. So caught up in each other and the sensations engulfing them, the new lovers did not notice the Lórien leaf begin to glimmer between them, the intensity increasing with their spiraling passion; mirroring their release, it exploded as well, bathing them in it's soft radiance.

From far away, Jordan heard Legolas call out her name as they climaxed together, their bodies wracked with violent shudders as his essence spilled deep within her. Holding her close, hearts beating wildly, they lay together in the throes of spent passion, their bodies still joined. It was several long moments before Legolas returned to the present. For a blissful moment, he was walking amongst the stars, blinded by their brilliance, attuned to their song as he found release. Lifting away from Jordan to allow her to breathe better, Legolas stopped when the Immortal's arms tightened, holding him in place. He raised his golden head, his hair falling around his face, touching Jordan's cheek with its softness. He stroked the sweat-dampened hair at her temples as her fingers traced his perfect features, marveling at the moment they just shared. Languidly running her hands through his soft hair, she whispered,

"Was this real? Or was it a dream?" In answer, he kissed her deeply, branding her again as his as he moved within her, wringing another gasp of pleasure from her lips. Only after the feeling subsided was Jordan able to speak.

"You've made your point, Legolas." Jordan whispered, trying to unsuccessfully stifle a very satisfied yawn. She felt deliciously tired.

The Immortal was having a difficult time staying awake; it had been quite a day for her. Not only had Jordan dealt more death in one day than she had since becoming Immortal, she had also taken her first lover. Legolas kissed her eyelids closed.

"Sleep now, Melamin." he murmured. Although he could have easily made love to her all night, Legolas knew Jordan wasn't up to it – at least not yet. With a sigh, he began to pull out of her warmth, but stopped as Jordan held him fast.

"No - Don't go . . . not yet." she sleepily protested.

"Amin naa lle nai(I am yours to command), Melamin."

Gladly he obliged. Holding her close, Legolas rolled her over on top of him, his hands stroking her soft skin, grinning as goose bumps formed. Jordan's dark hair spilt across his body like strands of silken nightshade, the contrast against his pale skin was stark. Looking down, he saw the stained sheets. Kissing the top of her head, Legolas held her close in a fierce embrace. His heart was full. She had chosen him to be her first, and he was honored.

"Amin harmuva onalle e' cormamin (I shall treasure your gift in my heart)" he swore, stroking her back lightly.

Jordan snuggled closer, burrowing her face against his chest, listening to the comforting, steady beat of his heart. Legolas was filled with a sense of peace he had never known before; looking down at the woman, he smiled contentedly as she sighed in her sleep.

"Quel kaima (sleep well)." he whispered into her ear, chuckling softly at her delicate snore.

Settling against the pillows, the Wood Elf cradled Jordan tenderly. Legolas could tell by her deep, even breathing, that Jordan was fast asleep; taking the utmost care, he rolled her onto her back, where she would be more comfortable. Lifting her limp hand to his lips, he placed a kiss on her palm. Studying the features that haunted his thoughts since he first laid on her, the Elf's bright gaze was drawn to the bandage on Jordan's shoulder. Their vigorous actions and the sweat of their bodies during lovemaking caused it to come undone. After a quick glance at Jordan's peaceful face, Legolas reached out and gently pushed aside the bandage in order to better view her injury. His blue eyes widened in wonder.

"Unless my eyes are cheated by a spell, there is no wound…" he whispered to himself. It was completely healed. In fact, it was gone! He touched it lightly to be certain.

His gaze strayed to the bandage on her upper arm. It had slipped to her elbow, revealing unmarred flesh as well. There was no trace of injury his keen eyes could see.

"How is this possible, Melamin?" the Elf asked the slumbering woman, troubled.

Legolas firmly tamped down the uneasy feeling that was growing in the pit of his stomach. Jordan answered with a soft sigh before she turned onto her side. Questions clamored for answers, yet Legolas forced them from his mind, determined to hold to this moment, but his unease grew stronger.

Legolas kissed Jordan's shoulder before he quietly slid out of her bed and drew the bed sheet over her. Fastening the ties on his breeches, the Elf thoughtfully studied the sleeping Immortal as he adjusted the clasps on his tunic. Noiselessly crossing the room, Legolas lingered in the balcony doorway and gave Jordan one last, contemplative look before he turned and disappeared into the night.


	21. Comes A Horseman

The stars twinkled brightly in the dark heavens high above; in the main courtyard, the silvery moon lovingly bathed the small gathering of Elves in its argent beams. Gifted with hyper keen senses, the Elysian beings needed no other source of light to see one another. The Lords, twin sons of Elrond, stood side by side; bright mithril mail peeked out from beneath their silver-grey cloaks. One after another, they clasped the Golden Elf's shoulder in farewell.

"Quel fara, Melloneamin (Good hunting, my friends)." Legolas said.

"Tenna' ento lye omenta (until next we meet)." Elladan replied.

Beside him, Elrohir sniffed. A peculiar expression settled on his face as he sniffed again loudly, his Elf eyes casting about in alarm. Resting a hand on his brother's breast, Elrohir's nostrils flared as he continued to test the air. Clutching the front of Elladan's tunic, Elrohir pulled him close and sniffed ostentatiously, alarm on his Elven-fair face. Calmly, Elladan pried his brother's fingers apart one-by-one. Loosening his twin's grip, Elladan glared at him as he smoothed down his tunic and resettled his mithril shirt.

"Putta ile amada (stop, you fool)!" Elladan muttered under his breath. His brother ignored him. Instead, the warning spurred him on, for Elrohir began gagging.

"Mani naa ta (what is it)?" Legolas asked, concerned.

The Wood Elf's fair head swiveled about, searching for the menace. Elrohir stepped forward, then suddenly lurched towards the Mirkwood Prince, who easily caught the dark Lord when he stumbled and almost fell. Legolas hauled his friend to his feet, his capable hands supporting him beneath his elbow. Elrohir suddenly was unable to stand; his legs had inexplicably become boneless. Grasping the front of Legolas' tunic in both hands, Elrohir sniffed loudly across the material, then close to Legolas' neck.

"You! It's – its you! Lle holma vee' edan (you smell like a human)!" Elrohir gasped, a look of mock horror on his face.

"Amin muula malia (I don't care). I may smell like a human, but unlike you, you ARE human - at least one fourth of your blood is." Legolas replied with a smile. Grasping their shoulders again, the golden Elf stepped back.

Despite his best effort, beside him, Elladan tried in vain to choke back his laughter, failing miserably as he gave the Mirkwood Prince an apologetic smile. Observing it all, despite the reason for their gathering, Lord Elrond's lips twitched into a smile. It gladdened Elrond's heart immensely to see his sons jest; for too long they were consumed with their self-appointed quest. Legolas grinned and pushed Elrohir away, but not before playfully cuffing him on the ear. Elrohir rubbed his ear soothingly, pretending great injury.

"Serves you right, amada (fool)!" Elladan said.

"Pay him no mind, Legolas. Ho dolle naa lost (his head is empty) and he is envious." Elladan apologized on his brother's behalf. It earned him a punch on the shoulder from his twin. Because they were good friends, the Golden Elf took no offense.

"Your allegiance is misplaced, brother – and the Lady Jordan would've come to her senses eventually and chosen me." Elrohir said, while trying to slap the back of his twin's head. Elladan sidestepped and ducked well beyond his brother's reach.

"Lle naa haran e' nausalle (You are King in your imagination); if that was so, it would be you and not our fair friend here who wears her scent like perfume." Elladan returned.

Clearing his throat, Elrond stepped forward. Immediately, the Lords sobered and faced their father. Legolas watched silently as Lord Elrond clasped first one dark-haired, grey-eyed son to him, then the other in a fierce embrace. The Ruler was no stranger to sadness of the heart; his only daughter had chosen a mortal life. Though pleased she found happiness with Elessar, the knowledge that the Evenstar would never join him in the Undying Lands pained him to no end. Orcs ambushed his soul mate, Celebrían, and her entourage while en route to Lórien. She had been held and tortured until their brave sons' daring rescue; however, the damage was done, for she had suffered greatly. Though Elrond had used the full extent of his healing abilities, he was unable to heal his love of the darkness and anguish that continued to plague her soul.

Unable to bear the soul agony, the Silver Queen sailed over the Sea to the Undying Lands where the Valar alone could restore and heal her. And there she remains, awaiting the arrival of her family. As for his sons . . . ever since Celebrían sailed over the Sea, the twin Lords ranged far and wide thru the lands, obsessed with avenging their mother's kidnapping and torture at the hands of Orcs. Seeking and slaying all manner of fell creatures, Elladan and Elrohir often returned to the home of their birth, to replenish their supplies and remain for brief periods of time before departing again. So long as one Orc lived, they would not rest. The Elven Lord feared for his sons, and often implored the Valar to impart upon them a triple portion of their grace.

"Uuma dela, Ada (do not worry, Father)." Elrohir said, trying to reassure his Lord.

"Cormamin niuve tenna' ta elea lle au' (My heart shall weep until I see thee again)" Lord Elrond replied, for it could very well be months before he may see them.

"Tenna' san', Ada (until then, Father)." Elladan said, speaking for his brother.

"Will you not wait until the morning, my sons?"

"Nay, Ada; we cannot. The Orc hunt has already delayed our departure. To ease your mind, we will remain within the borders of Imladris, then journey on at daybreak, for our Dúnedain friend awaits our arrival."

The Princes saluted their father before leaping onto their mounts. They left without a backward glance, eager to resume their never-ending quest, for they were determined to spend eternity, if necessary, seeking out and destroying the very last Orc upon Middle Earth. With a heavy heart, the Elven Lord watched his sons ride away until they were out of sight. Sighing, Elrond walked towards his dwelling; Legolas fell into step beside him. The Ruler's brow furrowed in thought, considering his words before he spoke them aloud.

"How are. . . matters between you and the Lady Jordan?" he asked; Elrond did not need his Gift to determine what had transpired between the Mirkwood Elf and his guest, for as his son observed, the scent of the woman as well as the unmistakable redolence of passion clung to the Wood Prince, but Lord Elrond would much rather hear it from the Elf himself.

"Well and good, my Lord." Legolas replied.

"I am pleased for you." They walked in silence for a time before the Ruler spoke again.

"Perhaps you had better return to her side." Elrond said as he gave a meaningful glance to the Golden Elf.

The younger Elf's serene expression gave nothing away, yet Elrond could see the faint flush creep into his cheeks.

Imladris' Ruler smiled inwardly. With so much death and destruction wrought upon Middle Earth, it was fitting that a valiant Member of the Fellowship find happiness for a time in the arms of a warm and willing partner. Legolas touched his hand to his heart, then his forehead before taking his leave. Lord Elrond watched him depart, an indulgent expression mingled with concern on his ageless face; the feeling that this . . . 'moment' would not last was growing ever stronger. For not only was Lady Jordan mortal, Elrond had felt the stirrings of powerful magic. For ill or good, yet remained to be seen.

Eager to return to his lover's side, the Legolas' booted feet made no noise as he swiftly moved up the stairs. At the topmost landing, the Crown Prince paused, his heightened senses prickling in response to the strong currents of magic he felt. Standing still, Legolas strained his excellent senses as he looked about, intently studying the surrounding buildings before shifting his sharp focus to the trees in the distance. Despite his efforts, the Wood Elf saw nothing that was cause for alarm; Elven guards were posted throughout the trees and roamed the paths of Imladris. The considerable power of Lord Elrond, combined with that of its residents would be sufficient to repel any threat, especially one so near to this revered center of learning and peace. Yet Legolas was unable to shake the feeling of being watched. The Elf's blue eyes narrowed. A creature of beauty and magic, like all Elfkind, Legolas knew spells that he employed on occasion. Now was such a time. He raised his hands . . .

#

Gregory lifted the black cloth, revealing what lay hidden beneath. Silver edging on the black velvet pillow gleamed in the light, and upon that pillow sat a crystal ball. Most extraordinary was the nervous, crackling energy in the air - even Joe could feel it.

"It's, uh, black." Joe remarked, gazing dubiously at the seemingly plain object.

"Why yes, it is." Gregory replied, a smile in his voice.

"I thought you said it was a crystal ball." The Watcher said, confused.

"Not all crystal is clear." Their Host explained sagely.

"What exactly is it?" Joe asked. He glanced at the Highlander, hoping to take a cue from his friend. Unfortunately, Duncan was staring at the ball like it was a lifeline. Methos stepped up beside the Watcher.

"It's called a Seeing Stone." He murmured, eyes fixed upon the globe.

"Among other things." Gregory agreed, gazing at the Stone as if it were priceless.

Feigning interest, Joe nodded; he didn't understand what all the fuss was about. Half the size of a man's head, it was the deepest black in color. Even if it was a 'Seeing Stone', Joe couldn't figure out how anyone could see anything in its dark surface, for there were no cords or other lines to plug into a power source that would light it up from within.

_Hell's bells – you'd think it was the Holy Grail on that damned pillow._ the Watcher thought privately to himself, looking between the Highlander and his host.

_I came, I saw, I'm not impressed._ Joe snorted inwardly.

"Yeah, okay. Well, that was fun. If you don't mind, I need to get some air." The Watcher said. He'd much rather peruse the rare books and maps.

"It is a little stuffy in here, isn't it?" Gregory said.

"You ain't kidding. I think I'll head out side." Joe said, turning to leave.

"Why don't you go this way?" Gregory suggested. He stepped further into the shadows and drew aside another partition to reveal a door. Joe wondered how he managed to not see the partition that was directly in front of him.

"Gotta get my eyes checked." He mumbled under his breath.

"Pardon - did you say something?" Gregory asked as he twisted the doorknob.

"Nah, just talking to myself." Joe replied.

Gregory swung the door open. Followed by Methos, their Host stepped outside into the hazy sunshine; the two men strolled leisurely side by side. Eager to escape the close confines of the small room, Joe hesitated, looking at his charge.

"You comin', Mac?" Joe asked the Highlander.

"In a minute, Joe. I'll catch up with you."

"Suit yourself." The Watcher replied as he stepped outside.

The Highlander stared back at his distorted reflection in the opaque globe's smooth, dark surface. With a renewed sense of purpose, Duncan concentrated, blocking out all distracting thoughts as he fixed an image of Jordan's face in his mind's eye; once again, he summoned the Immortal Nakano's knowledge of the mystical arts. Faintly at first, then stronger, the Clansman felt the tingling, pounding rush of some mysterious, unnamable force fill him, spreading outward as he exerted his will. His pulse increased, singing in his veins until his blood roared like the sea in his ears as the crystal ball flared to life . . .

#

Was it dawn or twilight – the Highlander couldn't tell. Jordan used her staff to fend off more of those weird creatures. Duncan watched with pride as she dispatched them, frowning when his student was soon out numbered. The Highlander didn't breathe again until he saw Jordan make short work of the four creatures that surrounded her. The scene changed; Jordan was kneeling over someone. He recognized the look of concern on her face as she bent close.

The Highlander read her lips, saying 'don't move'. Jordan gazed intently at something over her shoulder as she reached for her shurikens.

_What's happening?_ He wondered. The images fuzzed as Duncan's concentration wavered. The Highlander focused and the image sharpened.

"Where are you, Jordie?" he murmured..

As if in response to his question, the scene changed again. It was nighttime. Jordan was asleep. Suddenly, her eyes opened and she sat up, looking right at him as she pushed her tousled hair out of her face. Blinking, Jordan clutched the bed sheet to her bare chest. Duncan frowned. One point he often insisted upon was to never sleep in the nude, for you may then have to fight in the nude. Jordan had primly assured him she never slept in the nude.

_If –_ Duncan corrected himself

_When I see her again, we'll have to have a little chat about that._ The Highlander thought as he continued to watch.

"Jordie . . ?" Duncan whispered, wondering if she could hear him. He saw her relax, a shy smile on her face. Suddenly, his student was gone, her image lost as the ball darkened.

"No!" Duncan cried aloud.

Desperately, the Highlander commanded the Seeing Stone to respond to his will. It flickered but revealed nothing. Gritting his teeth, Duncan clenched his hands into fists as he willed Jordan to appear again - to no avail. She was gone.

#

_Jordie . . ?_

"Lietha guldur (dispel magic)." Legolas murmured, finishing the incantation.

The feeling of being watched by unseen eyes dissipated. Legolas cast a glance over his shoulder and murmured a word of power to reinforce his spell. . . just in case, before continuing on his way. Entering his lover's quarters, Legolas was surprised to discover Jordan sitting up in bed, the sheet clutched to her chest.

_I'm dreaming._ The Immortal told herself.

One moment she was lost in the oblivion of rest, the next Jordan swore she heard Duncan's voice in her ear, plain as day, whispering her name. The Immortal visibly relaxed when she saw Legolas; blinking, Jordan could hardly sit upright as she hid a wide yawn behind a delicate hand; she gave the Wood Elf a soft, sleepy smile, making a valiant effort to keep her eyes open, briefly unsure if the Elf was a part of her strange dream. Jordan thought no more of her dream when Legolas' lips curved in a slow, sexy smile in return. Hair tousled from his hands, the woman radiated contentment and satisfaction, still flushed with the afterglow of their lovemaking. Jordan bit her bottom lip as she watched her lover approach, turning the two words over in her mind. Her lover.

She liked it. With a lazy smile, Legolas divested himself of his clothes and leisurely stalked towards the woman, nude. The Elf's graceful movements would make a cat jealous. Legolas claimed Jordan's lips in a devastatingly tender kiss, branding her once again as his. Gently pushing her back onto the pillows, the Elf stretched out beside the Immortal and watched his reflection in her eyes.

"I thought you were gone." she murmured; Jordan's voice was so faint - even to her own ears, the Immortal wasn't sure if she thought the words or said it aloud.

"I will not leave you, Melamin." He murmured huskily, nuzzling her neck. Raising himself on an elbow, Legolas cradled his head in his hand and trailed his free hand down Jordan's side, smiling as she quivered beneath his touch.

Cupping her breast, Legolas gently kneaded it as his thumb brushed over her nipple, teasing it to a hard bud. His mouth soon followed. Jordan turned onto her back and closed her eyes as he began to suckle and kiss her breasts, reacquainting himself with her flesh. Much as she wanted to repeat the experience, unfortunately, all Jordan could do was sigh with delight; she was simply too exhausted to do otherwise. Even Immortals needed to rest. The Elf grinned widely. If Jordan were willing, he would make love with her again – this time well into the morning. After all, he thought, Elves are superior to Men in so many ways. Alas, his lover was clearly not up to it . . . not yet, he thought smugly. Legolas watched Jordan's eyelids droop before fluttering open; the cycle repeated itself several times. It would be a matter of seconds before her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and Legolas wished to spare her the indignity.

"Go to sleep, Melamin." The Prince whispered in her ear.

"I can't when you're doing that." Jordan replied tiredly.

"Doing what?" Legolas queried.

"That." She murmured as his hands and mouth fanned the recently stoked embers of desire.

Chuckling softly, Legolas stopped his ministrations; now that he had claimed her as his own, the Elf would wait. Already Jordan's eyes were closed as she passed into slumber. Studying her features, the Elf wondered how many winters Jordan has seen; in reality, there was precious little he really knew about the woman beside him. No matter; that too, would change.

Though the elements did not affect him, for Jordan's sake, Legolas drew the bed sheet over them and wrapped an arm around her waist; pulling her close, Legolas spooned Jordan against his groin as he curled up around her, his elfhood stirred to life at the nearness of her; however, there was nothing he could about it. For now. In the meantime, the Legolas concentrated on bringing his body under control, contenting himself with breathing in the sweet and unique scent of his lover's skin. Kissing her shoulder, Legolas snuggled Jordan closer to him as his mind drifted into a light reverie.

#

Gregory looked down at the Eldest who was seated upon a fallen log; he sighed and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Remember Thanatos: whether or not we tread the path that lies before us or veer away from it . . . and for those who walk beside us or fall away – there is always the freedom to choose. "

Methos looked up sharply but said nothing. He hadn't heard that name in centuries, and the Ancient One didn't care to be reminded of his past . . . misdeeds. He watched the older gentleman slowly make his way back to his shoppe, passing the Watcher on the way.

"I'll see you inside." Gregory said. Joe nodded; he wished to stay outside a bit longer.

"Nice little forest. Anything else to see other than trees?" the Watcher asked, squinting up at the trees. Overhead, the squirrels chattered loudly, scolding the noisy birds in the leafy branches.

"There's a village not far from here with a most delightful drinking establishment. But I must warn you – the folk can be quite colorful." Gregory answered.

"'Colorful'. That doesn't sound like a bad thing." The Watcher mused.

"You should see it for yourself sometime." Gregory replied.

"Maybe later." Joe said.

"Indeed." The older gentleman said with a strange smile on his face as he walked away. He was almost to the door when the Highlander emerged, clearly distracted.

"Duncan, are you all right?" Gregory inquired.

"No – yes; I don't know. I think I need some air." The younger man said. His host nodded.

"Take your time, Duncan." He replied as he disappeared back into the shop.

The Highlander's mind reeled with what was revealed to him. He needed to sort it out and make sense of the situation. Up ahead, he saw the Ancient One seated upon a fallen log. Methos looked lost in thought, not reacting when Duncan made his way towards him.

"Methos – are you ready to head back?" He called as he approached his friend.

"Yeah, sure." The Old Man replied; he seemed preoccupied.

"Everything all right?" Duncan asked.

"It will be." Methos answered.

"What about you? Are you ready to leave?" the Ancient One asked the younger Immortal. The Highlander nodded.

Methos climbed to his feet. Walking in silence, the Men were busy with their own thoughts as they followed Joe back

inside.

#

After bidding Gregory goodbye, the Immortals dropped the Watcher off at his bar before continuing on to the barge. Brooding, Methos sat at the stern watching the waves lap against the barge. Sunlight reflected off the water made it look like a sea of brilliant, glittering diamonds; the cool breeze off the water ruffled his dark brown hair. On deck, the Halcyon was seated on the green park bench, watching his reluctant host pour him a cup of coffee. It was up to Caine to break the stony silence.

"Its been a long time, Duncan." The Halcyon commented.

"Not long enough." Came the snide reply.

"You're not still mad at me, are you?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Duncan replied sarcastically. He had half a mind to throw the blonde Immortal overboard.

"Oh come on, MacLeod – you won. Kalas is dead. Thank you, by the way. You did the Immortal community a huge favor." Glaring at his Elder, Duncan hesitated before nodding.

"You're welcome." The Clansman replied.

"Besides, it must've been some Quickening, eh? No hard feelings?" Caine asked, holding his hand out.

The Highlander considered refusing the apology. Though he was an active participant in the Game, Duncan, like the Halcyon, preferred to live his life in peace. What he didn't appreciate was being the butt of a practical joke—especially if it could potentially cost him his head. Still, he had to admit – it had been quite a Quickening. The Clansman considered his options; his circle of friends diminished over the years, and Jordie's disappearance had driven that unpleasant fact home. Other than his propensity for practical jokes, the Halcyon was basically a decent guy at heart; in addition, that he was married to another Immortal validated the Elder's moniker. It would be nice to have friends who were still among the living. Duncan grasped the Halcyon's hand, squeezing it a little harder than necessary. A grin of satisfaction spread across his swarthy face as Caine winced.

"No hard feelings." The Scot replied. Pulling his hand back, Caine flexed his fingers, trying to restore his sense of feel.

"What have you been up to, Caine?" Duncan asked. The older Immortal's lips lifted in a quirky grin.

"I live – obviously. And thanks to Meredith, I love. Mostly I write, occasionally I fight. Life goes on as usual. Same old, stuff, different day. So, what about you, Duncan – what brings you to the City of Love?" Caine asked. The mischievous grin on the older Immortal's face irked the Highlander, for it reminded him of the ignominious time they first met. But then again, Duncan was fairly new to the Game . . .

_: : : :_

_The Knave's Haven_

_London1671 A.D._

_ After a night of drinking and carousing, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod decided to call it a night. Pleasantly tipsy but still in command of all his faculties, the Highlander stepped outside and breathed deeply. The cool night air was a welcome change from the closed, stuffy pub. Still, it was his kind of place; the ale was good, the music lively and the buxom bar wenches friendly; though the air reeked with the smell of unwashed bodies and tobacco smoke hung heavy in the air, it reminded the Highlander of his happier days back home with the Clan. Taking a step, Duncan tripped over his feet and almost tumbled to the ground before catching himself. _

_Chiding himself for taking more drink than usual, Duncan argued with his inner self; wasn't it his prerogative? After all, he'd just celebrated his 79__th__ birthday. Alone. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, for he would be hard pressed to explain to the Clan why he hadn't aged, or the fact that he healed fast. Faster than what was natural. The Immortal turned his thoughts away. It was easier to not dwell on his banishment, for that life was lost to him forever. Duncan hadn't gone far when he noticed a scruffy bloke watching him intently from across the way. Not in the mood for a scuffle, the Clansman kept to his side of the street, close to the buildings. Behind him, the scraping of footsteps on the cobblestones alerted him to the fact he had unwanted company. _

_ Duncan continued on his way and started to weave, pretending to be more inebriated than he appeared. It wasn't long before five scoundrels stepped away from under cover of the shadows and slowly approached._

_ "I don't want trouble." The Highlander said, holding his hands out._

_ "I doon care what ya want. I want yer coin purse, ya dumb bastard - give it to me!" The leader of the pack snarled; his thick Cockney accent made it hard for the Highlander to understand his words._

_ "I doon think so." the Highlander replied, deliberately slurring his words. His dark eyes counted the number of men surrounding him. Five to one – unfair and just the way he liked it._

_ "Let's change his mind, boys." _

_At his signal, the others followed, drawing their knives and swords. Whipping out his broadsword, the Highlander prepared to defend himself. Momentarily cowed, the bandits hesitated; their prey wasn't as helpless as they thought. With a shout, they leaped upon the Highlander. _

_Caine Spencer ambled down the cobblestones in search of a pub in which to quench his thirst when he felt the Buzz. An Immortal. Following the pull, his footsteps slowed as he came upon a free for all in the middle of the street. Bandits had set upon a hapless man, intent on robbing – and possibly more. Cloaked by shadow, the Immortal took a minute to gauge the situation, studying the sword technique of the embattled man. Thwarting two ruffians, the Highlander thought he was doing well – until he felt a blade slash his back as he was briefly distracted by the Buzz. _

"_Not bad. . . he could use some pointers, though." Caine said to himself, watching the stranger deflect several knives, their wielder's intent on plunging the blades into their victim's flesh. Cain's eyes searched out each individual; Duncan met the Halcyon's eyes. _

"_A fellow Immortal requires my assistance." He murmured. _

_Caine drew his sword and rushed to help. With the arrival of his benefactor, the Highlander and the Halcyon drove off the last scoundrel. Panting, Duncan warily nodded his thanks, dividing his attention between the Immortal and the scurrilous bandits as they skulked back into the shadows, soundly defeated. The Highlander doubted they'd molest anyone else for a time._

"_I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan Macleod." The Scot's brogue was heavy. Caine smiled._

"_Caine Spencer. I'm not here for you." He said, nodding towards the broadsword the Clansman wielded. The Halcyon thoughtfully appraised Duncan MacLeod._

_ "You're new to the Game, aren't you?" he asked. Silently, the Highlander sized up the Immortal before him, trying to determine if he could be trusted. _

"_I can help you - teach you the finer points of swordplay." The Halcyon offered. Duncan snorted. _

"_You? You're but a mere boy! What can you possibly teach me?" Duncan scoffed in disbelief, looking the Halcyon up and down. He doubted the youth before him could offer anything of value._

"_Never underestimate your opponent." Caine replied coolly, sensitive about his youthful appearance. At times it proved to be detrimental, for other Immortals he encountered often had similar reactions, and refused to take him seriously. But then again, sometimes it was advantageous during a Challenge._

"_En garde!" Caine struck the Highlander's broadsword with his blade._

"_I doon think so." Duncan replied, backing away. _

_Caine followed. Surprised with the ferocity of the youth's attack, it was all Duncan could do to hold him off. Before the Highlander could counter, the Halcyon lunged and stabbed him thru the heart. The look of disbelief on the Scots face was comical. Caine watched him sink to his knees as his life slowly drained away. _

_Wiping his blade on the Highlander's shoulder, Duncan swallowed hard as Caine's sword rested against his neck. The Highlander closed his eyes in anticipation of the killing stroke. It never came. Instead, he fell, face forward onto the cobblestones. With a heavy sigh, the Halcyon sheathed his sword. They needed to take this lesson elsewhere, away from mortal eyes._

_The Highlander revived with a gasp, the dull ache in his chest evidence of the mortal wound he'd received from Caine Spencer. Sitting up, Duncan looked around. He was in an alley, refuse strewn about the ground. Dusting himself off with disgust, the Highlander climbed to his feet. Seated casually upon a wooden crate was the Immortal whose acquaintance he'd just made._

"_Took you long enough." The Halcyon complained._

"_How did you get me here?" The Highlander asked. Surely the youthful looking Immortal hadn't carried him all this way by himself? Looking about, Duncan saw so no other soul around. _

"_With my magic carpet. What do you think you dolt? I carried you." Caine answered. _

"_Why didn't you take my head?" Duncan asked, suspicious as he struggled to his feet. _

"_You were at a slight disadvantage. Besides, I don't kill for pleasure." Caine replied calmly as he drew his blade._

"_Pick it up." The Halcyon said, indicating Duncan's broadsword. Caine jumped off the crate, calm and confident. Sword in hand, he approached the Clansman, the tip of his blade pointed towards the ground._

"_Your move." The Halcyon said. Duncan looked at him, flabbergasted._

"_I doona want to fight you." The Highlander insisted._

"_Sometimes your wants don't matter in the Game. Survival does." The fair Immortal said._

_Caine lunged again; this time, Duncan managed to block his thrust. Unfortunately, the Highlander lasted all of ten minutes – eight minutes longer than before, when he was stabbed thru the heart again. The Halcyon retreated to the crate and sat down, grinning. _

_Sometime later, Duncan's eyes opened. He turned towards the crate to see Caine seated comfortably on top. Stifling a groan, the Highlander climbed to his feet, using his broadsword to assist._

"_En garde." The Halcyon took up a fighting stance, a half smile on his face. This time, Duncan was determined to best him and wipe that grin off his face._

"_Uhnhgh." With a sigh, Caine seated himself once more upon the crate as Duncan kissed the filthy cobblestones. The Halcyon winced._

"_Sorry, Highlander – I thought you were going to fall on your side." The Halcyon told Duncan's lifeless body._

_The Halcyon waited for him to revive. When the Highlander's eyes opened, Caine remained seated. Growling with frustration and anger, Duncan brandished his broadsword aloft._

"_Come on!" _

_Taking his time, Caine got of his crate. The cold night air rang with the sound of their blades scraping. Sparks flew as they fought. With a quick flick of his wrist and a twist of his sword, Caine disarmed the Highlander and stabbed him thru the heart. Again. With a heavy sigh, the Halcyon settled once more onto his crate, wiping the blood on the hem of his cloak. And waited. _

_When the Highlander revived, Caine reached a hand down. With a glare, Duncan caught it. _

"_Point made." He grudgingly told the Elder. The Halcyon smiled as he pulled Duncan to his feet._

"_C'mon, I'll buy you a pint." Caine offered, clapping the Highlander on his back. It was a small, yet hard learned lesson; Duncan would think twice about judging someone based on appearances alone. : : : : _

"To answer your question, I'm taking a break from . . . things." Duncan said, reluctant to go into detail. He poured himself a cup of coffee. The Halcyon studied the younger Immortal.

"Look, I know why you're here, Duncan. Adam said you were searching for someone; I hope you find her." the Halcyon said sincerely.

"I hope I do, too." The Highlander replied. They sat in companionable silence, sipping their beverages, each thinking their own thoughts.

#

Tossing and turning in bed, Duncan moaned; the woman's shrill voice rang in his ears.

_MacLeod - - you will bury many women, but you will marry none – you will always be alone! Do you hear me?! Alone! _

The Highlander sat up, wild eyed and drenched in sweat; he looked around the dark room, searching the shadows. Calming, Duncan untangled himself from the bed sheets and ran his hands thru his damp, tangled hair as he thought about his past Gypsy lover. After all these years, Carmen's words were self-fulfilling. Hopes and dreams . . . joy and pain – Immortals felt the same emotions mortals do, albeit to varying degrees; were they so very different from the mortals they silently moved amongst thru the Ages? Duncan seriously doubted it, for They loved and hated, as well. Immortality did not nullify their humanity. Were they doomed to walk the earth alone - was he? The battles that never ended, the lovers moving in and out of his life like shadows, never to stay beyond what amounted to him as but a fleeting moment in time. The Immortal friends he lost. The losses weighed heavy at times; it was an extraordinary amount of emotional baggage to carry around for centuries. It didn't matter. If he had any say in the matter, Duncan planned to keep the friends he did have as long as he could. Prophesy or not.

_ Jordie. _ His eyes narrowed; he repeated her name in his mind like a mantra.

The Scot threw the sheets back and pulled a shirt on. Walking to the sofa, he briefly debated to wait until a reasonable hour of the day before deciding there was no time like present. Duncan shook his friend awake. Not a good idea; the Highlander felt the Ivanhoe's steel bite as Methos' single handed broadsword rested against his neck.

"Whoa, wake up, Methos." Duncan said calmly, waiting for Methos to fully waken..

"MacLeod?! What the bloody hell are you doing? I could've taken your head!" Methos blinked.

Slowly, the Highlander pushed the blade away from his neck. After a moment, Methos sheathed his sword. Even Duncan had to admit startling the Paranoid One from sleep was a death wish. For someone who wasn't an active participant in the Game, the Old Man could certainly move quickly when he wanted to. Methos was not pleased, to say the least. After drinking beer, sleeping ranked high among his favorite activities.

"Let's go, Methos."

"Go where?! What time is it, anyways?" Methos looked at the Highlander with an incredulous expression.

"Early." Duncan said flatly as he turned to go to the head.

"I realize that. I was sleeping, you know." The Ancient called after him.

"Key word: 'was', Methos. You're not now. Call Joe, would ya? Tell him we'll be there soon to pick him up." Duncan's words floated back.

"You know, even we need to sleep – there's no rule against it. It is allowed!" Methos yelled as the head door closed. It opened briefly when Duncan poked his head out.

"And coffee – coffee's good!" the Highlander called out before he shut the head door again.

Grumbling, the Ancient One yawned, resigned to the fact he was awake and would remain so. When MacLeod got an idea into his head, he hung on to it with tenacity like a bulldog. Methos reached for the phone; it took ten rings before the Watcher answered.

"Yeah." The Watcher's voice was rough with sleep.

"Be ready in half an hour." Silence.

"Adam?! Do you know what friggin' time it is?" Joe exclaimed incredulously.

"Yeah – it's Miller time." The Ancient One quipped.

"Get your own damned beer. Bar's closed. Why the hell are you callin' at this hour?" Joe asked.

"Because your boy's up before the birds, Joe." Methos listened to Joe's colorful cursing.

"Fine." The Watcher hung up without saying goodbye.

Fixing a strong pot of coffee, Methos drank three cups before the Highlander emerged from the head freshly showered, a towel wrapped around his waist.

"Your turn." He cheerfully announced.

"Yeah, well its your turn to do dishes." The Elder shot back.

"You're getting grouchy in your old age, Methos" Duncan commented.

"I'm entitled to be." Methos returned as he drained his mug and placed it in the sink.

The Ancient One made his way to the head, wondering what the day would hold for them.


	22. Till They Meet Again

Clad only in breeches, the Wood Elf leaned against the balcony doorway and faced the sunrise; the golden shafts gradually pierced the gray dawn, spreading warmth and light, awakening the flowers, which in turn unfurled their fragrant petals to greet the early bright. It promised to be a glorious day; the sighing of the wind in the trees and the songbirds' sleepy calls made Legolas smile until a different sound caught his attention. His sharp ears pricked and his head turned towards the source; Legolas tracked the sound in the hallway. The steps were soft, the stride light yet purposeful - and it was coming. Pushing away from the doorframe, the Elf collected his tunic as he walked towards the bed. He gazed down at his lover and softly pressed his lips to hers in a fleeting kiss. Jordan smiled in her sleep before rolling onto her stomach. Donning his tunic, the Elf didn't bother to fasten the clasps as he strode to the door before the knock could awaken Jordan.

Pulling the door wide open, the Mirkwood Elf almost smiled at Ceallach's surprised expression. Legolas quickly slipped a hand under the tray the servant carried, when the covered dishes began to slide off -not missing how the Ceallach's eyes widened as she took in his state of undress. Legolas' warrior's braids were undone, the golden locks tucked behind his pointed ears. From her angle, the maiden could see well into the room; despite herself, the servant's eyes flicked over to Jordan's sleeping form. Blinking twice, Ceallach then looked between the woman and the Mirkwood Elf. Realizing she was staring, the she-Elf remembered herself and discretely averted her gaze.

"M-My Lord. . !" Ceallach stammered softly as she delicately cleared her throat. The she-Elf expertly adjusted the tray, tilting it so the dishes slid back into place.

"Good morn, Ceallach." Legolas said his voice low and amused.

"Good morn, Prince Legolas." The Elven maiden answered quietly, composed again.

"Something for the Lady, to break her fast." She explained unnecessarily, lifting the tray in her hands.

"Thank you, Ceallach. Please, allow me." The Wood Elf said, relieving her of the tray.

"Thank you, my Lord." She replied. The Elven maiden stood in the hallway, waiting.

"Yes, Ceallach?" Legolas prompted, lifting an eyebrow.

"I must collect last night's tray, my Lord." She answered.

"By all means." The Elf stood aside and allowed Ceallach to pass, closing the door softly behind her.

Taking the morning tray back from the Prince, Ceallach entered Jordan's chambers. Her observant gaze swept the room, noting the Mirkwood Elf's boots by the bed, and Jordan's sleep shift draped over the back of a chair. The woman lay sleeping; the bed sheet had slipped down, revealing Jordan's bare back and the gentle swell of her bottom. Her long, uneven, black hair flowed across the pale sheets like a dark river. Ceallach set her burden upon the table and quietly lifted the previous night's tray, nodding her thanks when Legolas opened the door for her; the she-Elf was about to leave when she turned back. Surprised to see the Prince of Mirkwood in the Woman's quarters, Ceallach almost forgot she was to give the Wood Elf a message.

"My Lord, a courier arrived for you before dawn."

"Is it urgent?" he inquired.

"I do not know my Lord. The scroll has been delivered to your quarters." The she-Elf replied. Legolas nodded.

"Thank you, Ceallach."

The maiden bowed before taking her leave, stealing one last glance over her shoulder before she hurried away. Legolas closed the door quietly and grinned widely. Without doubt, most – if not all of Imladris will soon know where and with whom he had spent the night. Legolas didn't care - all the better, so other Elves would know the Lady was taken and to whom she belonged. Judging by the position of the sun, Legolas knew it was almost the seventh hour of the morning; a glance at Jordan's still form showed no sign of her awakening anytime soon. In fact, she hadn't stirred once since turning onto her stomach. As he waited for Jordan to rouse from slumber, Legolas changed the water of the Athelas plant in the golden chalice before quietly building a small fire in the hearth.

Seated at the table, Legolas lifted a heavy, silver lid revealing spiced oatcakes. Breaking one in half, he liberally spread orange honey and butter upon it. Sipping hot herbal tea, Legolas ate and watched his lover sleep, remembering the feel of her beneath him, his hands on her warm, soft flesh. . .her enthusiastic response. He was not mistaken about that.

In reaction to last night's erotic memories, Legolas' elfhood began to swell; he shifted in his chair, his breeches growing uncomfortably tight. The Elf was sorely tempted to wake Jordan by making love to her once again, yet he decided against it; Legolas would put thought to action later, for he wished to be uninterrupted when he next loved her. Legolas finished his meal and dressed; pulling his boots on, the Elf covered Jordan and gently kissed the top of her head before exiting thru the open balcony doors.

#

Jordan gradually returned to consciousness as the sweet, silver sound of a lark's joyful melody disturbed the Immortal's rest. Her mind slowly awakened as her eyes slitted open. Blinking several times until her vision came into focus, Jordan knew from the brightness of the room, the sun was high in the sky. Rested, healed and refreshed, a slow blush spread across her cheeks and her lips curved into a wide, satisfied smile. The fantasy had become reality. . .and Legolas did not disappoint, rendering her first intimate experience well worth the wait.

_Legolas . . ! _

Raising herself onto her elbows, Jordan looked around to discover she was alone. The room felt so empty without him, yet Jordan was glad for the solitude, for it allowed her to reflect upon the previous night's events. Hugging the pillow Legolas used, the Immortal buried her face in it and breathed in the Elf's scent: woodsy, fresh. . . special. Legolas was everything good, clean and fragrant in nature in one gorgeous, skillful, wonderful package. And he was in her bed last night. _Hers!_ Jordan couldn't seem to stop smiling. Stretching languorously, the Immortal's stomach rumbled.

Crawling out of the bed, Jordan wandered over to the table, nude, in search of her shift. She was certain Legolas had draped it over the back of the chair last night. On a whim, she opened the armoire to find it was neatly hung. Jordan smiled in appreciation. There were certain things she couldn't tolerate, and clutter was one of them. Collette once mentioned how Edgar J. Mumford III, her butler, discretely declared it was most undignified for a young lady of her social standing to have a telltale trail of clothing left for him to pick up when his employer and her current beau would be taken in a fit of passion. Of course, Collette would then launch into a detailed description of the raunchy sex she and her lover would have. Jordan sometimes wondered if her friend did it just to embarrass her. . .

: : : : _"Don't be such a prude, Jordie! When you find the right guy, believe me, you can't get enough. And Tarik – he's the One!" Collette rolled her eyes in ecstasy._

_ "Isn't that what you said about your last boyfriend?" Jordan asked skeptically._

_ "We all make mistakes. He wasn't the One." Her friend replied, her tone matter of fact._

_ "So, what's the criteria of being 'the One'?" the Immortal asked, amused. Collette looked at Jordan conspiratorially. _

_ "Oh, lotsa things. But a huge deciding factor depends on how he does between the sheets. If he satisfies me, he can stay the night and maybe he gets an invitation back. If he bores me or just plain can't light my fire, I kick his ass out of my bed, have Mumford show him the door and write it off as a loss."_

_ "Alley cat!" Jordan teased. The blonde ran her pink tongue over her top lip suggestively._

"_Meow. . !" Collette purred as she crossed her legs, sat back in her chair and casually draped her arm over the back of her chair. _

_Several men at the next table over snapped to attention, for the movements caused the blonde's tight pencil skirt to ride up and her chest to jut forward, straining the top buttons of her tailored suit jacket. If Collette smoked, the Immortal could very well imagine her lighting up a cigarette. Jordan had to admit that her friend, though vulgar at times, was highly entertaining._

"_My parents should've named me 'Mercy', because that's what all the boys say afterwards: Mercy, mercy, mercy!" The blonde said smugly. _

"_But, Coll – what about diseases . . .?"_

_ "Don't worry, Jordie. No glove, no love. Life's too short. I won't be young forever, so I sure as hell plan on enjoying myself – safely – while I can before gravity hits. Besides, if he's potentially bed worthy, I won't sleep with them until their medical background check comes back." _

_ "What?!" Jordan exclaimed._

_ "It all comes down to money, Jor. They say it can't buy happiness, but it sure can buy the next best thing and a helluva lot of other stuff. When the time comes, I plan to have a close relationship with a good plastic surgeon – the best Hollywood has to offer." Collette said wisely._

_Collette smiled at Jordan's incredulous look. The Immortal studied her friend as she bit into her burger. Collette Ashford Hamilton of the Virginia Hamiltons was an interesting person - to say the least. At first glance, the blonde could be dismissed as simply another W.A.S.P. Delicate, refined features and perfect bone structure spoke of well breeding. Impeccable manners saw Collette thru dinners with high society as well as the working class, which, after making her acquaintance, was an immense part of her broad appeal. The blonde was at equally at ease shopping at the local discount retailer as she was ordering a haute couture gown. Directly from the designer. _

_Collette hailed from old money, is educated by one of the best academic institutions west of the Mississippi, and could easily have married old money and led a life of comfort and leisure. Yet Jordan's spirited friend also had a rebellious streak that compelled her to buck tradition, much to her parents' express disapproval, for the independent blonde carved out an impressive niche in corporate law. It saddened Jordan to know one day their friendship would end, for time would ravage her mortal friend, but would leave Jordan untouched. _

_ "Honey, if it'll affect my health, I want to know. You can't be too careful. Besides, that health privacy hogwash -"_

"_Health information portability accountability act." Jordan helpfully provided._

"_Yeah, that thing – it only covers so much; lots of other information is available and beyond its reach. With everything in life, if there's a will, there's a way to get it. You know what I say? 'No regrets, Baby'. Let me tell you what I did to Tarik last night. Do you know the amazing things you can do to a guy with a glazed donut …"_

"_Stop! I don't need to hear this. Too much information, Coll." _

"_I swear, Jordie – you sound just like my grandmother." _

"_You talk about your sex life with your grandmother?!" Jordan asked with a horrified expression on her face as she took a large bite of her chili cheeseburger. Collette leaned forward and fixed her pale blue eyes on the Immortal._

"_No – but if I did, she'd sound just like you! I swear, sometimes you act as if you were born a couple decades too early! Don't be so virginal. It's so not you. You know what they say: 'All work and no play makes Jordan an Old Maid' – or something like that." Jordan raised an eyebrow at that but didn't comment._

"_So, was your last guy dynamite between the sheets? Was he good at bringing you to the big 'O'?" her friend eagerly asked. _

_A handsome, dark haired man in an expensive business suit walked by their table –well within earshot – just as Collette asked her bawdy question. Jordan choked on her food; if that wasn't bad enough, her eyes started to tear up. The Immortal was certain she would next be spewing spicy chili chunks thru her nose if she didn't clear her windpipe soon. _

_ "Stop it, Jordie – I don't know C.P.R." Collette hissed as she thumped her friend on her back. _

_Red faced, Jordan glared at her friend as she coughed uncontrollably. With a concerned expression on his handsome face, the man stopped to assist. _

"_I believe the Heimlich maneuver would work better in this situation." He interjected as he moved to stand behind Jordan._

_The Immortal waved them both away, and braced her hands on the table, attempting to dislodge the chili in her throat. _

_Taking a step back, the man placed Jordan's soda before her; gratefully, the Immortal took a sip._

_ "Will you be okay?" He asked kindly; Jordan could only nod in response as she wiped her mouth and nose._

_ "She'll be fine, Hon. Just in case she's not, what's your number so she can call you?" Collette asked, slanting a coquettish look up at him. Holding up his left hand, the thick gold band on his finger glared back at the blonde._

_ "Too bad." Collette murmured, fluttering her lashes at him. He simply smiled before turning to Jordan._

_ "Are you sure I can't get you anything?" he asked._

_ "Thank you – I'll be fine." Jordan gasped with a weak smile. _

_With a nod to the Immortal and a wink to Collette, the man walked away. Collette unexpectedly thumped her friend on the back once more for good measure. Jordan's glare was lost on her friend as the blonde wistfully gazed after the handsome man's retreating figure before she resumed their previously interrupted conversation._

_ "So, was he?" Collette persisted._

_ "I can't believe you, Coll! Can we please change the subject?" Jordan exclaimed as she took another sip of soda._

_ "Not till you answer my question. Well – spill! What happened?" Jordan's green eyes followed the man in the business suit. _

_ "I didn't get the chance to find out. We were . . . interrupted." The Immortal's lips tightened at the memory._

_ "Couldn't get the mood back?" Collette asked sympathetically._

_ More like 'Didn't want to' Jordan thought to herself._

_ "No." Jordan said her tone curt._

_ "Oooh – did I hit a nerve or something?" Collette asked; her gossip radar was going haywire._

_ "Or something." Jordan said tersely. The blonde made an exasperated noise._

_ "Jor, am I going to have to pry every single detail out of you?"_

_ "Of course!" the Immortal cheerfully replied. Collette glanced at her watch._

_ "Some other time, Jordie. My lunch break is over, and the boss is going to have my head if I'm not back, pronto. Speaking of head, I read an article with tips on how to give -"_

_ "Collette!"_

_ "Fine. I smell a good story. Don't think this is over – consider it postponed. I'll call you later, okay? In the meantime, page 104. I strongly suggest you read it. Slowly." _

_With a smirk, the blonde casually tossed the latest issue of Cosmopolitan magazine on the table. A soft breeze ruffled the glossy pages and blew it open to an article entitled '10 Surefire ways to get your Lover Hot'. _

"_It's a sign, Jor!" Collette declared as she waggled her perfectly shaped eyebrows at her friend. Jordan laughed as she watched her friend gather her purse before she walked away._

"_Tootles, Jordie!" _

"_Stay out of trouble, Coll!" the Immortal called after her. _

"_Never!" her friend replied. _

_The blonde tossed a kiss over her shoulder, leaving Jordan to stare after her with an exasperated smile. And the check. : : : : _

#

Looking at her reflection in the mirror, the same face looked back at Jordan, but . . .

"I feel different. I feel . . . alive." The Immortal murmured before she laughed at herself, fully aware there was no outward physical change.

Later, Jordan planned to visit the House of Healing. Surely Læurenthail needed help, and maybe she'd in turn be willing to help Jordan with her hair. The Immortal walked to the table and raised a domed lid; the fresh fruit looked tempting, as did the oatcakes, yet Jordan instead chose a large piece of Lembas for breakfast. She was starting to develop a taste for the enchanted Elvish foodstuff, often preferring it to something more substantial. Brushing the crumbs from her hands, the Immortal began to make her bed, humming softly to herself when she happened to glance down; Jordan's eyes widened in dismay when she saw the dried blood on the otherwise pristine sheets.

"Oh no!" she breathed. Quickly gathering the soiled bed sheet, Jordan brought water from her pitcher and poured it on to the sheet. She rubbed the material together, which only made the stains spread instead of fade.

"Damn." She whispered to herself.

Jordan could only imagine what fuel it would provide for the rumor mill. Certainly gossip transcended cultures, times and realities. For a moment Jordan considered throwing the linen into the fire.

"No. . . willful destruction of Lord Elrond's property isn't an option, Jordie." she said aloud.

Jordan was quite reluctant to have the Elves handle the soiled sheets. Especially if Legolas was spotted leaving her quarters. Clutching the linen to her chest, Jordan sat down heavily onto the feather mattress.

"Maybe they'll think I'm on my period." She reasoned. Even if that were the case, Jordan didn't want someone else to clean her sheets; it was a quirk of hers that no one would know of her body functions, much less her intimate activities.

"Wait – do she-Elves even have periods?" Jordan wondered aloud.

_Don't be stupid, Jordie. Elves have relationships, too. _Her logical mind reasoned.

"_Yes, but with Women? They'll know we were together last night."_

_You like him, he obviously likes you. Big deal. _

"_But I don't want to advertise the fact we slept together last night."_ She told herself.

_The Elves have better things to do than worry about with whom you're sleeping with; nor is it a matter of Rivendell security. Everyone's going to find out sooner or later that you and the Elf are lovers. If you're smart, you'd choose sooner._ Jordan couldn't argue the logic of her rational mind.

There was no way around it; she would have to wash it by hand herself. Emptying the medicinal satchel, Jordan stuffed the soiled linen inside. Hurriedly gathering her toiletries, Jordan wrapped them in a clean dressing robe and tucked it under her arm as she pulled open the door. Ceallach breezed in before Jordan could think of a plausible excuse to bar her entry.

"Ceallach!" the Elven maiden's name came out as a squeak.

"Good morn, Lady Jordan." The maiden replied; she held a fresh set of linen in her arms.

Was Jordan imagining it, or did the she-Elf's eyes hold a knowing gleam? The servant didn't ask why the bed was already stripped as she quickly and efficiently made the bed. With her task completed, the she-Elf looked around.

"Er, good morn, Ceallach. Thank you for making the bed. Uh, I was just on my way to the bathing room." Jordan said.

"Where is the other sheet Lady Jordan?" the she-Elf asked, frowning as she looked about the room. The Immortal remained quiet as Ceallach's gaze settled on the satchel in Jordan's hand. In her haste, Jordan failed to notice a length of linen spilling out of the satchel.

"Is the sheet within?" the servant asked, walking towards her. Jordan gave the she-Elf a weak smile.

"Let me see to it for you, Lady." Ceallach reached for the sheet.

"No, no – I'll take care of it." Jordan replied, backing away.

"It is my duty to attend these matters. Lady Jordan, please - !" Ceallach caught hold of the sheet.

"Ceallach, no – I'll wash this." The Immortal insisted.

"My Lady, please!"

Sternly the servant gazed at the woman. Ceallach couldn't understand why Lord Legolas bore with humans. They could be most unreasonable as well as emotionally unstable, behaving like unruly children. Reluctantly, Jordan surrendered the linen to the most determined she-Elf.

"Thank you, Lady Jordan." Ceallach sniffed, mentally adding 'unpredictable' to the undesirable qualities inherent to Mortals.

#

Returning to his quarters, Legolas' eyes fell upon the scroll resting in the middle of the bed. Ignoring it for the moment, the Wood Elf bathed and changed his raiment. Sprawled comfortably upon the bed, the Elf opened the hard leather case and tapped out the scroll. He immediately recognized the imprint exclusive to the Royal House of Mirkwood. Legolas' eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he broke the wax seal.

"Father is never one to write letters." the Prince mused to himself. Unrolling the scroll, the elegant, Elvish script was written in his father's bold, flowing hand. Legolas quickly scanned the parchment.

"Nor does he favor lengthy correspondence." He murmured softly, for the missive was brief and to the point.

With a sigh, Legolas re-rolled the scroll and returned it to its case. The Wood Elf calculated he must leave no later than daybreak on the morrow to arrive in time. A seasoned warrior, Legolas was accustomed to speedy travel at a mere moment's notice.

The Mirkwood Elf's thoughts turned to Jordan, and his discovery of her lack of injuries. The answers he sought would have to wait until his return, unless . . . she accompanies him. Yes! Legolas thought, liking the idea immensely. Should the Lady agree to the journey him, he could both keep her close, and draw from her the answers which he sought as they traveled together.

Legolas decided he would ask Jordan straightaway. Rising from the bed, the Mirkwood Elf decided to first seek out Gimli, before requesting from Lord Elrond the necessary provisions required for their soon departure.

It did not take the Prince long to locate the Elf-friend, for within Imladris, there were only three places where the Dwarf was sure to be found: the eating halls, the smithy or the tannery. It was at the latter where the Prince found his friend for the Dwarf was having the handles of his small throwing axes wrapped with new leather. He silently watched the Dwarf heft and swing the axes, testing the grip before throwing them at a thick wood stump. Grunting his satisfaction, Gimli turned to see Legolas leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his chest.

"What are you about, Laddie?"

"Searching for you, Spangaer (bearded One); I am summoned home for a distant relation's Binding Ceremony. Will you join me?"

"How long do you plan to stay?" Gimli asked. The Elf shrugged.

"A fortnight. Maybe less. What say you?"

"Nay; I have matters to attend to here, and wish to prepare for our journey to Gondor. I have been corresponding with King Elessar about restoring the White City, and am expecting his reply."

Legolas wasn't surprised the Dwarf chose to remain in Imladris; not overly fond of travel by horseback, it did not help matters that the Elf Prince's father, King Thranduil had held Gimli's father, Glóin, against his will for a time. Although he and Gimli's friendship was steadfast, it was much too soon to expect the long held prejudices between the Elves and Dwarves to be reconciled in so short a time. However, the fact that Gimli and Legolas called each other 'friend', is a step in the right direction towards restoring good will between the two cultures.

"Very well, Mellon (friend); should you change your mind, I plan to leave early on the morrow." Gimli grunted and turned his attention back to his throwing axes.

"And what of the Lady?" Gimli inquired as he retrieved his weapons. Squinting at the newly wrapped handles, the Dwarf adjusted a section of the leather wrapping.

"I have yet to ask her to accompany me." Legolas replied.

"Really?" Gimli looked at the Elf, his bushy eyebrows raised with interest.

"Really." With a smile, the Elf turned to leave as the Dwarf chuckled.

#

The Watcher groggily eyed the Immortals as they entered the bar.

"You guys just couldn't wait for the morning, could you?"

"It is morning, Joe; I have nothing to do with it. Talk to MacLeod here. Besides, a Watcher's job is never done." Methos flippantly countered, absolving himself of any blame. The Ancient one slid onto a stool and laid his head down on the counter.

"Smart ass." Joe muttered. "Hell, it doesn't matter anymore. What's up?"

"Grab your coat, Joe." Duncan instructed as he leaned against the counter.

"Where we going?" the Watcher asked.

"Back to Gregory's." the Highlander replied.

"That's what I thought you said. Mac – it's early. The guy may not even be open."

"He'll be open for a friend." Duncan said confidently.

Joe sighed; it was useless to argue with the Immortal when he set his mind to something. The Watcher went to his back office and retrieved his favorite plaid blazer. Shrugging into it, Joe returned to the bar; Methos was already outside; standing beside a waiting taxi; the Old Man was talking on his cell phone. Duncan was still inside, waiting for his Watcher.

"Do you have someone to mind the bar, Joe? This could take all day if Gregory's not in."

"Yeah, there's nothing important that I need to see to. 'Sides, Lou's good; he'll manage the place just fine." Duncan slid off the stool.

"Then let's go." The Highlander said. Outside, Methos signaled for his companions to enter the car as he finished his conversation.

"Keep checking with Gregory until we get back. Yeah . . . thanks. Gotta go." Methos murmured into his mobile phone.

The Ancient tucked his phone away, quietly watching as Joe locked the doors to the bar. The taxi ride to Gregory's shop was quick and uneventful, one of the advantages of traveling before the morning traffic rush. Standing outside Gregory's shoppe, the Highlander and his Watcher waited as Methos paid the driver. Turning to his charge, Joe raised a grey brow.

"You sure this couldn't wait until normal business hours?" Joe asked skeptically.

"Yes, I am." Duncan replied.

"Okay, Mac – why are we really here?" The Watcher asked tiredly.

"Like I said, Joe - I need to talk to Gregory"

"And you need me here for that?!"

"You're my Watcher; right?"

"Yeah, so? That doesn't mean we're attached at the hip, Mac." Joe said, giving his charge an exasperated look.

"Which is why you followed me to Glenfinnan." Duncan answered with grin

"Round one to MacLeod, Joe." Methos said, overhearing the exchange; Joe gave the Old Man a dirty look and ignored the comment. Methos silently gazed at something down the street before he turned away.

"I saw her." Duncan said quietly.

"Who?" the Watcher asked, confused. He looked first in one direction of the rue, then the other; there was no one else around save the trio outside the shop.

"Who do you think, Joe? Jordie!" The Highlander replied. Joe perked up at the good news; his face broke out in a smile.

"Wait a minute – Jordie? You saw her? That's great! Where was she - across the street? Which way was she headed? Let's go get her."

"I saw her in the Stone." Duncan said.

"In the Stone?" echoed the Watcher uncertainly, not sure he was hearing the Immortal correctly.

"In the Stone, Joe." The Highlander repeated again.

"Why can't things ever be simple with you Immortals?" Methos snorted at that comment and muttered something Joe didn't quite catch.

"You got something to say?" Joe asked, turning towards the other Immortal; the Ancient One merely smiled and held his hands up in mock surrender; irritating Joe was something of a favorite past time, especially when the Watcher was cranky to begin with.

"If only it were that simple, Joe." Methos murmured softly as he peered into the store. The lights were on, but no one was inside.

"Well, let's see if anyone's home." Duncan said.

The Highlander rapped sharply on the glass pane, then rapped again. The interior brightened as a light came on. With a smug expression on his face, Duncan turned to his companions.

"See? He's in."

Gregory appeared; recognizing his visitors, a smile broke out on his whiskered face as he hurried towards the door. The sound of the tumblers turning seemed inordinately loud in the quiet early morning as Gregory unlocked the door, pulling it wide open.

"Well, look who's here bright and early! Your timing is perfect. Come in – come in. I was about to have a spot of tea. I insist you join me."

Duncan followed, apologizing to the older man as he led the men to his study; Gregory good-naturedly waved aside the Highlander's words, instructing them to sit; their host passed around a plate heaped with buttery croissants as he poured the tea. Methos chose to stand as Joe and Duncan seated themselves in the chairs across from Gregory

Gregory gave no outward indication that he thought it odd to be entertaining unannounced guests, discussing mundane matters over a very early breakfast - before daybreak, as a matter of fact. The Highlander cleared his throat, unsure how to broach the topic. Current events, antiques and history – yes, but . . . magic was not something he discussed on a regular basis.

To acknowledge it was one thing, to use it was another; the essences of other Immortals whose Quickening the Highlander received over the centuries – their skills, knowledge and powers, he used without conscious effort or thought. However, to specifically seek and successfully command the abilities of the Sorcerer – and for it to actually work was an entirely different matter. It took a little getting used to. Even for Duncan. The Highlander gave his companions a pointed look. The Eldest took the hint.

"I believe it's time we go." Methos said as he placed his empty teacup on the tray.

With a pointed look at Joe, the Eldest gestured towards the hidden room. Hurriedly finishing his croissant, the Watcher grabbed his cane and waited, ready. Gregory looked at Methos with a tiny, secretive smile hovering around his lips; he rose and walked with the Eldest towards the partition. Gregory lowered his voice, his words meant for the Methos alone.

"It is time. You know the way, do you not?" their host asked. Methos nodded slowly.

"We'll find it." He replied with a confidence he did not feel.

"The way is open, Thanatos." Gregory said as he pushed the heavy drape aside and opened the door.

"Hey, Adam, wait up." The Watcher called. Methos paused in the entry as Joe climbed to his feet.

"Joe, are you sure you want to do this?" he asked his friend.

"Whaddaya mean? Of course I do. It's only air." Joe said, not understanding the concern in Methos' voice.

"Wouldn't you rather take a walk down to the Boulanger (bakery) out front?" Methos asked, trying to dissuade the Watcher.

"They're closed, Adam, remember? We're up before the cocks crow. What – you tryin' to get rid of me?" Joe asked.

"You're a pretty sharp guy, y'know that, Joe?" the Ancient One said sarcastically. Their good-natured bickering continued and faded as the men took a walk in the pre-dawn forest. Their host watched them until they disappeared around the bend. Leaving the door open, Gregory returned to the waiting Highlander.

"What's on your mind, Duncan?" Gregory asked.

"Gregory. . . I know this may sound strange, but…well, that crystal ball of yours really works."

"Does it, now?"

"Gregory, please don't play games with me. That Stone of yours - I saw Jordie in it. I actually saw her. The question is: how is it possible?" Duncan asked.

The Older gentleman rose and gestured towards the alcove where the others had passed. Duncan stood and walked towards the room.

"Duncan, sometimes we see what is, what has passed . . . or what has yet to come to pass. Have you stopped to consider that you're close to your goal – closer than you think?" Gregory asked. The Highlander just stared at him.

"What does your heart tell you about Jordan?" The older gentleman asked. They were standing at the threshold now.

"That she's alive. I would feel it if she weren't." The Highlander was becoming frustrated, for the conversation was going in circles.

"Then hold to that. Sometimes the heart knows what our eyes do not see." Opening the door wider, Gregory looked out towards the woods.

"Go with your friends, Duncan. They are waiting for you. A stroll invigorates the mind, as well as the body. . . And could lead to enlightenment as well. Perhaps you will discover that for yourself." The older gentleman moved aside to allow the Highlander to walk past.

Although the Highlander wanted to get a more conclusive answer from the older gentleman, Duncan found himself doing as Gregory suggested. Framed in the doorway, Gregory crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. He waited until Duncan disappeared around the bend before he closed the door and drew the partition, once again concealing the entry.

#

"Come." The Half-Elf bade.

Looking up from the scrolls, Lord Elrond watched as Legolas entered the Ruler's library and stopped before his desk. The Wood Elf's head was bowed in respectful deference as he waited to be addressed. Though the Ruler's timeless face was composed, inside Elrond was chuckling. It was now common knowledge throughout Imladris the Mirkwood Prince had spent his night and early morning with the Lady Waters . . who yet slumbers.

"Legolas, how may I be of service to you?"

Legolas' head jerked up and his body stiffened. He felt . . . something. A ripple of awareness spread out, alerting his keen senses. The Mirkwood Prince shifted his ocean blue gaze to the Ruler.

"Did you feel that, my Lord?"

"Aye, Prince." Elrond replied warily.

"What do you suppose that was?" Legolas asked. Elrond's eyes took on a distant look as he used his Gift to decipher the disturbance.

"Something stirs in the west . . . what it is, I cannot say for certain, Prince." Legolas nodded. The Wood Elf thought back to the previous night, when he felt the gaze of unseen eyes.

"Until that which is hidden makes itself known, what may I do for you?" Having no choice but to deal with the present situation at hand, Legolas regretfully stated his reason for coming.

"My Lord, I have been summoned home. I must leave soon, no later than daybreak by the morrow. I expect to be gone a fort night."

"Do you travel alone?" Elrond inquired.

"I've yet to ask the Lady Waters to accompany me. Master Gimli has elected to remain behind to tend to his correspondence with King Elessar . . . and, I suspect, because he is not fond of traveling by horse. May I impose upon your hospitality on their behalf a while longer?" Legolas replied.

"You need not even ask. Provisions will be supplied. Please send your father my regards."

"Thank you, my Lord. By your leave, I will make haste to depart." Legolas touched his hand to his heart, then his forehead before taking his leave.

#

The Healer assisted Jordan with her hair as requested; the Immortal's formerly waist length raven hair now reached to the middle of her shoulder blades. Jordan didn't count the missing length a total loss, for her head felt lighter, and the ends curled up slightly – courtesy of her paternal grandfather.

_Whew – so glad to finally be outta there. _Jordan thought.

From the moment the Immortal appeared in the House, no matter what part of the House she went, all conversation ceased for a beat before the Elves would begin to whisper amongst themselves in their musical language. Jordan didn't doubt they were talking about her, for the Elves – whether they were Apprentices, Healers, or seeking aid, would send either a sly look her way, a smile, a frown, or would titter behind their hands; it was an extremely disconcerting and uncomfortable feeling. Relieved to get away, the Immortal returned to her quarters. Once inside, Jordan stopped short when she saw Legolas. He was outside leaning against the balcony railing with his back towards her. Quietly closing the door, Jordan briefly touched her hair, wondering what he'd think before she quickly smoothed her gown down; she had not taken two steps when he turned around.

"Hi." She shyly greeted the Elf. It was the first time she'd seen him all day, since waking up alone in her bed.

"Hello. Jordan, I must speak with you." Legolas said as he walked towards her. The Elf studied Jordan's face as he caressed her cheek. Wrapping an arm about her waist, he held her close and kissed her; she felt it all the way to her toes.

"Okaaaay . . . about what?" She asked cautiously.

"I have received a summons from my father. He bids me return to my home in Mirkwood."

"Oh." Jordan didn't know what to say or how to react.

_Here it comes - this is the part where he tells me: 'last night was great, can you find your way out?' I guess Nanay and all my Aunties were right, I should've waited until marriage._ Jordan thought sardonically to herself.

The Immortal wondered if this was the Elven equivalent of 'wham, bam, thank you ma'am – don't call me, I'll call you.'

"My presence is required for a distant cousin's binding ceremony."

"And what exactly is a 'binding ceremony'?" Jordan asked.

The images in her mind weren't exactly pleasant; her maternal great-great-great grandmother had had a 'binding' ritual performed as a child, where her toes were broken and bound – wrapped tightly and over time, contorted to resemble a lotus bud, symbolizing gentility and high birth. Jordan shuddered. She vaguely heard what Legolas was saying.

"Jordan?" the Elf asked. Coming out of her thoughts, Jordan looked at Legolas blankly.

"Hmm?"

"What is your answer?" the Prince asked with a smile on his face. Jordan knew if she were to lose her head today, the image she wished to see before she died would be the Elf's smile.

"'Answer'? What was the question?" Jordan asked.

Legolas looked at her oddly and sighed inwardly. It was unfamiliar ground for the Elf; not ever lacking offers for female companionship, Legolas never before asked a female to accompany him – home, that is, for he'd never felt even the faintest desire to bring one home to Mirkwood.

"I was hoping you would consider accompanying me - I would like to show you my home. And introduce you to my father." Legolas said.

"Meet your Father?! I'm honored - I really don't know what to say…" that was the last thing Jordan expected him to say.

"Say you will accompany me." Legolas encouraged, hoping she would agree.

"When are you leaving?" she asked.

"Before daybreak on the morrow." He answered.

"So soon?" the Immortal asked. Legolas nodded, watching her face, wondering what she was thinking.

"Is Gimli coming?" Jordan asked.

"Nay; there are matters he needs to tend before we journey to Gondor." Legolas replied. Jordan mulled it over in her mind, mentally ticking off the pros and cons in her head, she had more cons than pros.

_Let's see. No indoor plumbing, Legolas seeing me at my less than best, at least two days riding hard on horseback, no less . . . Nope, can't do it. _

Much as she wanted to spend every waking (even sleeping) moment with the Elf, the thought of roughing it in the most primitive conditions did not appeal to her.

"Uh, we-ell…"

"You will not accompany me" Legolas stated flatly, seeing her decision in her eyes.

Jordan could not tell from his outward expression if he was angry or upset, but she could sense his disappointment. Back peddling to take the sting out of her unsaid answer, she tried to reason logically.

"You'll travel faster without me. I'll only slow you down. I also promised Laurenthail I would help Ciercë gather herbs and stuff to restock the stores before the season changes."

"I understand. If that is your decision, then may I ask something of you?" Legolas replied. The keen disappointment was yet another new, unfamiliar feeling for the Elf, yet he could not argue with her logic and reluctantly accepted her decision.

"That depends . . . if I can." Jordan answered slowly.

"Promise me you will not do anything. . . rash while I am away." The Elf lifted a shortened lock, brushing it across his lips.

"And how would you define 'rash'?" Jordan asked; the simple act made her pulse quicken just a little.

"Promise me you will not attempt to return to your home before I return. Will you do that for me?" Legolas murmured.

Jordan looked at the Elf, speechless; the thought had not crossed her mind. The Immortal dared not read too much into his words, not wanting to presume too much, yet unable to quell the yet unrecognized emotion that swelled in her breast. Legolas kissed her softly, then more insistently. Jordan's arms encircled his neck as she pressed herself against him, moved that Legolas wanted to find her in Rivendell upon his return.

"Mmmm . . . "

"Will you swear to it?" Legolas asked.

He didn't give her a chance to reply as his lips covered hers once more. Sliding his hands down her sides, the Immortal lost herself in his kiss, not noticing his fingers gathering her gown, inching the velvety material upwards. Their lips never once lost contact as the Elf slowly backed them towards the bed, determined to seduce, if necessary, the answer he wanted from her. Turning them around, Legolas sat upon the edge, the Mirkwood Prince's long fingers grasped Jordan's hips and pulled her astride his lap, settling her directly onto his hardened elfhood, the soft leather of his breeches the only barrier between them. Under the hem of her gown, Legolas slipped a hand between them and inserted a long finger into her warm folds, pleased to find his fingers drenched with her intimate nectar. If his hand wasn't at her back holding her steady, Jordan was certain she'd topple over. She literally felt like putty in his hands.

_There're definitely benefits to not wearing panties. . !_ Jordan dazedly thought.

The Elf unerringly found her hidden bundle of nerves and expertly manipulated it, making Jordan gasp as her head fell back, unable to stifle the low moan that escaped her lips. Grasping his shoulders, the Immortal rose up slightly on her knees to allow him greater access. Legolas decided he preferred Jordan naked in his lap; with his free hand, he moved to rid the Immortal of her clothes. Thinking the same thoughts, Jordan quickly doffed her gown as the Elf untied his breeches, freeing his swollen member from its uncomfortable confines.

Legolas swirled his tongue around one nipple, before drawing as much of the soft flesh in his mouth, gently biting and suckling, before repeating the action to her other breast; grasping Jordan's hips with his hands, he held her over his elfhood. Gritting his teeth, the Prince continued to hold Jordan away, even as she teased the pointed tips of his ears with her tongue, determined to make her promise to wait for him.

"Swear to it." Legolas murmured huskily.

"Legolas . . . !" the Immortal breathed, clutching his shoulders, trying to close the gap between their lower halves. Looking into his azure eyes, Jordan didn't think she could refuse him anything.

"Swear to it, Melamin. . . " The Elf seductively urged his lover. Watching her face, Legolas slowly impaled her upon his stiff member, stopping after lowering her a few inches. Keeping a tight grip on her hips, he raised and lowered her just a little more each time, all the while ensuring the swollen tip on his elfhood rubbed against her highly sensitive nub of nerves.

"Please, Legolas - I swear I'll . . . be here. . . when you . . . come . . . back." Jordan moaned; she clutched his wrists, trying to remove them from her hips. Jordan strained to fully complete their union; she wanted him badly, but the Elf wouldn't allow it. . . just yet. His grip was like steel, holding her suspended - despite her best efforts.

Satisfied with her answer, Legolas rolled Jordan on to her back. Bracing his arms on either side of her head, the Elf watched his reflection in the woman's eyes as he slowly buried his full length within her; Jordan clutched him closer, wanting all her lover was willing to give. The cords in Legolas' neck stood out as he forced himself to keep a slow, steady pace, before changing the rhythm of his strokes. Entwining his fingers with hers, the Elf raised Jordan's arms above her head, pounding into his lover with shorter, faster thrusts, and then rocking slowly against her pleasure nerve. The Immortal's hips rose and twisted, undulating beneath the Elf; her warm folds and intimate muscles surrounded his member with a heated, rhythmic hug of its own; Legolas tirelessly varied his rhythm – unrelenting, long continuous strokes kept friction against Jordan's pleasure center. The Immortal writhed against him, her moans of pleasure becoming so loud, Legolas muffled her cries with his hot kisses, sucking on her tongue and ravishing her mouth with his own. The Elf intended to leave Jordan - as well as himself - with a vivid memory of them together, lost in bliss until he was once again by her side.


	23. Inamorata

Thranduil thrust his staff at the closest squire; ignoring the silent retinue of advisors gathered a discrete distance behind him, the Elven King shunned protocol and gathered his son to him in a brief but fierce hug.

"Do not tarry long until your next return home, my son." The Elder Greenleaf quietly instructed the Prince, feeling a sharp pang of sadness as he bid Legolas farewell.

"I hope I will not be alone when I do, Father." Legolas replied.

"That is my wish as well, Little Princeling. Go then, with the blessings of the Valar." King Thranduil said with a gleam in his eyes as he released his son.

The Mirkwood Elf gave his Sire a crooked smile and chuckled softly, for his father had not called him by that pet name since he was but an Elfling. Waiting patiently as father and son said their farewells, the Elf holding the horse's bridle spoke soothingly to the beast, but in vain, for the horse would have none of it. Prancing impatiently, Arod tossed his head and neighed, eager to be away; it was becoming increasingly difficult to manage the Prince's mount. Taking pity on his subject, King Thranduil touched Legolas' face and, with a slight inclination of his head, granted his son his leave. Gracefully vaulting onto his horse's back, Legolas gathered the reins and saluted the King as Arod reared slightly and wheeled away. With a thunder of hooves, they were off. Sighing, King Thranduil signaled the waiting squire and took up his carven oak staff, watching the beloved figure of his son rapidly shrink into the distance and beyond his sight, before retiring to his private chambers. Deep within the bowels of his underground dwelling, in the quiet of the room, the Elven King sat upon his favorite chair and gazed into the fire, pondering Legolas' unusual behavior . . .

_: : : : The slight weight of the diadem resting upon the Crown Prince's brow felt unnatural; it had been decades since he'd last worn this particular symbol of his rank and station, and he hadn't forgotten why – it was a nuisance. Without fail, the leaves always caught and pulled at the strands of his golden hair. Legolas much preferred a simple headdress – like the crown he had worn at Aragorn's coronation. Today, the Prince acquiesced to his father's wish he wear this particular crown for the Binding Ceremony. Similar in fashion to that encircling the Mirkwood Ruler's head, Legolas' wreath-like headdress, also wrought from the purest silver, is understated in comparison to his Sire's; his father's crown gleamed with the cool luster of pearls and sparkled with brilliant diamonds that caught the hazy sunlight, and set it aflame with an inner fire. _

_Seated upon his outdoor throne, King Thranduil surveyed the open courtyard; colorful flowers of the season were in abundant bloom, their soft petals strewn upon the forest floor, carpeting the ground with their delicate colors. Festooned in the trees were garlands of leaves and berries, and finespun ribbons fluttered gracefully in the light breeze. Save for the sentries' watchful guard at the borders of his woodland kingdom, all Mirkwood Elves were in attendance for the joyous occasion. Satisfied with the gathering before him, the Elder Greenleaf's ancient gaze settled on his son. Garbed in resplendent robes of shimmering green, gold and bronze, Legolas stood tall and proud as he performed his duties expected of him. Thranduil's heart swelled with paternal pride; more so as his son's regal bearing caused many a she-Elf to sigh with admiration and the highest regard for their Prince._

_During the three-day feast following the Ceremony, King Thranduil's attention oft focused upon the Prince. To the delight of the maidens, Legolas danced with one and all, regardless of birth or title. However, much to the dismay of both maidens and their matrons alike, the Crown Prince never once favored one maiden over the other. Legolas' cordial, yet remote demeanor only brought out the maidens' competitiveness and determination to be the one to catch the elusive Prince's eye; many employed subtle tactics, all geared towards winning Legolas' attention, in the hopes of securing his affection and with it, the coveted title of 'Princess'. Their best laid plans were for naught, Thranduil noticed, for when given a moment's reprieve from the constant presentation of eligible maidens, Legolas resorted to a tried and true method of escape – to Thranduil's side, where, in keeping with etiquette, no one dare approach uninvited. Standing by his father, the Elven King saw when the Prince's blue eyes, so like his own, often take on a distant look. _

_At first the Mirkwood Ruler thought nothing of his son's moody behavior; however, since the Crown Prince's return home, Thranduil often found Legolas outside, gazing up at the stars or standing in the dark with his amaranthine face turned towards Imladris. After the conclusion of the festivities, the King visited Legolas in his private chambers and questioned him,,…..ijkm deeply concerned that something was amiss. After reassuring his Lord that all was well, Mirkwood's King was most delighted to learn his son's distraction involved a 'maiden'. Her identity remained a mystery as Legolas declined to provide more details beyond that. The Prince assured his father that, in time, all would be revealed when matters between him and his maiden were certain. _

_In the days following, Thranduil's kingdom was abuzz with speculation, wondering who is this maiden that managed to capture the Prince's attention, for it was reported to the Elven King and confirmed by the royal silver smith himself, that Legolas commissioned a piece of jewelry of his own design to be made - and with all haste, for it must be ready for the Prince to take with him when he returned to Imladris. Thranduil smiled; it looked promising. Since coming of age, Legolas never lacked for willing partners. Despite the many dalliances and lovers his son took over the centuries, the King knew Legolas never before commissioned a portrait, much less a piece of jewelry in which to give a maiden. On several occasions, the King almost dispatched a courier to Imladris to inquire after the maiden's identity, yet he always refrained, and Thranduil bid his court follow his example, requesting his subjects respect the Crown Prince's privacy. A__fter all, if Legolas, as one of the Nine, was instrumental in saving Middle-earth from the coming Darkness, King Thranduil knew his son could be trusted to know his own heart. : : : : _

"_Ya naa lle (who are you)?" Thranduil muttered aloud, once again wondering who the mystery maiden was._

_Now that his oath to protect the Ring Bearer had been fulfilled, and his wanderings with the son of Glóin was done, a fine she-Elf would be just the thing to put an end to Legolas' senseless cavorting with Mankind. Whoever this maiden is, the Elven Lord hoped she would be the one to cease his son's restless wanderings with the Dwarf. It was high time for the Prince to settle down, and it was also the King's fondest hope to see his son happily bound, and eventually produce an heir or two. _

#

"What is this?! The lot is ruined!" Ancalimë, the Head Baker growled, gesturing towards the trays. His winged brows were drawn down in a dark scowl. Turning towards Pallanén, his mid-Apprentice, the Baker's scowl deepened. The young Elf swallowed nervously.

"M-Master, this is not of my doing…" stammered the Elf.

"If not you, who then? Speak quickly, for my patience wanes. There is yet much to do and the day waxes late." It was only the wee hours of the morning, but the Apprentice had the fortitude of mind to not point that fact out to his Master.

"L-Lady Jordan, Master - she wished to assist the Apprentices in the kitchen. I did not refuse her for she was most persuasive." Pallanén barely heard the continued ranting of the head Baker as the mid-Apprentice thought back to the even before . . .

_: : : : Exploring other areas in which to help earn her keep until it was time to travel to Gondor, the Immortal decided to pay a long overdue visit to the kitchens. Jordan was set to work scrubbing, peeling and chopping potatoes. By her fifth sack of the starchy tuber, Jordan was certain she didn't want to see another spud for a while, disliking the dusty, gritty feel of the skins that coated her hands. Curious to discover the way Lembas was made; Jordan washed her hands and wandered over to the bakery. Some of the pastries and other breads were already in the ovens, filling the kitchens with their delicious aromas. After introducing herself to Pallanén, a newly minted 'mid-Apprentice', the Immortal watched him painstakingly measure out precise amounts of flour, water, salt and other ingredients; Pallanén was in the middle of mixing the dough when another Apprentice called him away to see to an urgent task. _

_The mid-Apprentice was torn, for the summons arrived at a most inopportune moment. To stop now would run the risk of a ruined batch. __Seeing the indecision on the Elf's face, Jordan seized__ the opportunity to prove herself useful and offered to take the Elf's place – after all, how difficult could it be to mix the dough? After a moment's hesitation, Pallanén reluctantly accepted Jordan's offer, leaving her to see to the Lembas dough - but only after giving the woman explicit instructions. Jordan took the wooden spoon and continued to mix, her mind wandering to the night before and the wonderful things Legolas had done to her body. Blushing, the Immortal cleared her throat and glanced around, fearful the Elves would guess the reason for the wide smile on her face. _

_Turning her attention back to her task, Jordan was surprised to see the mixture hadn't changed appearance. In fact, her arm was beginning to tire from the repetitive motion; switching hands, Jordan mixed faster; scraping the sides of the bowl, no matter how much air Jordan incorporated, nothing had changed from the time she took over from the Apprentice._

"_It is most important you do not deviate from my instruction, Lady Jordan." the Immortal remembered the Elf's parting words before he hurried off._

"_Maybe Pallanén was wrong. This doesn't look right." Jordan murmured to herself._

_The dough was still wet and stuck to the spoon. Reaching for the measuring cup, she added more flour, shaking in a little at a time. As an afterthought, Jordan added a pinch more of the other dry ingredients and five extra eggs as well. Attacking the mixture with determination, the Immortal was pleased when a ball finally took shape and became elastic in texture_

_Although the task had taken Pallanén longer than he anticipated, when he returned, the mid-Apprentice was pleasantly surprised to find the dough (though a darker yellow in color than usual) had been mixed, kneaded and pressed into trays and left to rise overnight. He thought nothing more, and after thanking Jordan for her assistance, moved on to the next task of the day. This morning, the dough had been enchanted as usual and placed in the ovens. What came out were five ruined batches (of varying degrees) of the Elvish Waybread and the Middle-earth equivalent of unusually dense hardtack. : : : : _

_Where did it all go wrong? _ Pallanén wondered. The tips of his ears itched unbearably as they always did when he was anxious, yet he dared not scratch them in the presence of his Master.

_Lady Jordan assured me she followed my instructions._ the Elf thought, puzzled. No matter; it was a moot point and the damage was done. Blinking, Pallanén once again focused on what Ancalimë was saying. . .

" . . . I cannot further allow such waste. If the Lady Jordan wishes to assist in baking, see to it she does so without causing ruin to all she touches, else the blame rests upon you!"

"Yes, Master." Pallanén said meekly, his eyes downcast.

"Very well." Ancalimë gestured towards the misshapen lumps cooling on the trays.

"Throw it out and begin again. From this moment, I only wish to learn that the Lady Jordan placed the dough in the ovens – not prepared it. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Master." Pallanén replied, relieved to have not received a demotion in duty. He had only recently attained the position mid-Apprentice and did not wish to be relegated to the task of dishwasher again. Even for a day. With a sigh, the mid-Apprenticed called several low-Apprentices to assist him in gathering the ruined Lembas together.

"Valar help us all." Ancalimë fumed inwardly as he stalked away.

There was much for him to see to before his audience with the Peredhil: the stores of flour, grain and other dry goods must be inspected and accounted for, and this ruined batch of Lembas did not improve his worsening mood. If the ruined Waybread was any indication of the Woman's skill in the bakery, Ancalimë was not impressed.

#

"I should've gone with him." Jordan muttered, mentally kicking herself as she dressed.

She was already having a bad day, and it just barely started. Another restless night was spent twisting and tangling the sheets as Jordan tossed and turned in a fitful sleep. This early morning, as she had the previous mornings since Legolas' departure, the Immortal woke up apprehensive, consumed with a sense of foreboding. Hoping a bath would soothe her, after disrobing, the Immortal slipped on the edge of the bathing pool and landed hard on her hip; thankfully she was alone when it happened, for the embarrassment of a witness to her lack of grace would be greater than the injury itself. Jordan gently probed the edges of the large bruise on her hip. The scrape on her elbow and forearm was already healed; the purplish-red bruise would disappear within an hour or so.

"Do Immortals have mental meltdowns?" she wondered aloud.

Plagued with the uneasy feeling that a dark cloud was poised over her head and all hell was about to break loose, Jordan turned her thoughts to her absent lover, hoping the mere thought of him would put her in a better frame of mind. Despite keeping busy at the House of Healing or doing Katas, Jordan was surprised to find she actually missed Legolas. More than she thought she would.

In his absence, Gimli proved to be excellent company and her constant companion; Jordan spent most of her free time with the Dwarf exploring Rivendell. In the evenings, the Dwarf and the woman could often be found together sharing a meal as well as a philosophical discussion, such as what went better with Lembas – water or Miruvor, or with Warg – ale or beer? With Gimli at her side, Jordan was rarely bored. He entertained her tales of his and Legolas' travels with the others of a 'Fellowship'. The Dwarf was an excellent story teller, and despite the fact that their journey would be via horseback, the Immortal found herself actually looking forward to seeing this 'White City', as well as a place named 'Rohan' that their journey would take them through, for the Dwarf promised to show her the 'Glittering Caves', so named for its natural beauty. Jordan convinced herself the Dwarf's offhand mention of diamonds and other precious stones scattered about the caves like loose rocks had nothing to do with her desire to see it for herself. . . and maybe bring a few home – as a keepsake, of course.

When Jordan was alone at night, it was then she thought the most of Legolas and counted the days that passed since he left, missing his touch . . . wondering if he was in the arms of someone else.

"You don't own him." she lectured herself.

But we're lovers…doesn't that count for something? she wondered.

_Temporary lovers._ the rational part of her mind reminded her.

The Immortal decided to ignore that reality for a little longer. Shivering, Jordan threw another log on the fire. It was much colder at night and the mornings were becoming crisper as well. Pulling the brush through her wet hair, Jordan thought about Legolas. They had become lovers; was she now expected – or obligated to share everything there was about her? The brush stilled as she considered all angles.

_Kiss and tell? Definitely not. I don't have to tell him my whole life's story. Especially about my Immortality._ Jordan decided.

_He doesn't need to know. Besides, what good would it serve? Its not as if anyone's here for my head._ she whispered.

_Hiding the truth may not be wise._ the thought came out of nowhere.

"Duncan, I wish you could help me…" Jordan said aloud, wondering what the Highlander would do in her shoes.

"Damned if I do, damned if I don't. I'll just do what I'm doing - not say anything at all. I can't be accused of lying or deceiving him." Jordan decided. Deep in her gut, the Immortal couldn't ignore the feeling that she may be making the wrong decision.

"I'll live with it." she told herself as she pulled the brush thru her hair. Imagining Collette before her, Jordan could almost hear her friend's dulcet tones giving her own peculiar brand of advice. Never mind the fact Collette easily turned her passion on or off like a faucet. …

_: : : : "You've gotta learn to love them and leave them, Jor. Guys do it all the time, so why not us? And don't tell them everything about you – at least not so soon. It's the kiss of death in any relationship. Don't get too attached to one, 'cause there's too many men, too little time." Collette wantonly advised her friend when the Immortal expressed concern over her carefree ways. : : : _

Despite living in the frenzied pace of the 21st century, Jordan didn't share the cavalier, hedonistic approach Collette possessed towards lovers and relationships - or her outlook on romance. With a sigh, Jordan bound her hair in a low ponytail and took one last look at her room, satisfied she left no unnecessary work for Ceallach to see to before leaving her quarters. The Immortal decided a return to the kitchens for a healthy dose of busy work was what she needed to distract her from her conflicting thoughts and the choking anxiety that nipped at her heels. In the kitchens, Jordan found Pallanén in the bakery and once again offered her assistance. Quickly, the mid-Apprentice steered the bewildered Immortal in a different direction – towards what he informed her was the scullery, hastily explaining that the low-Apprentices needed all the help with the amount of dish washing that could be found. When they entered the enormous rooms, Jordan couldn't help but gawk in dismay at the towers of dirty plates and columns of pots and pans; her breath whistled out between her pursed lips as she watched the low-Apprentices go about their seemingly infinite task.

"Careful what you wish for, Jordie." She muttered quietly.

"Lady Jordan?" the Elf asked quizzically.

"Nothing – I was just talking to myself." Shrugging, the Immortal rolled her sleeves and took her place at the sink beside an Apprentice.

#

Sensing the urgency within his Elf-friend, the horse neighed; in response, Legolas released the reins and leaned forward in the saddle over Arod's neck, gripping the horse's mane as he gave the horse his head. Tossing the bit in his mouth, Arod's powerful neck stretched out, his gait lengthened, hooves blurred as he swiftly bore his Elven master toward Imladris. Since leaving Mirkwood, they had ridden all the days and most of the nights, not stopping unless it was to water and give Arod a few hours' rest. Only after Arod assured his master the pace was not too great for him, did his Elf-friend allow them to continue their return journey.

The Prince studied the slowly lightening sky as Arod raced over the terrain. Legolas wondered at the still visible stars; during the night, their brilliance was veiled, their celestial song muted. Change. It was all around. The season was beginning to turn, the chill in the air hinted at winter's coming. Soon the Elf, the Dwarf and the Woman would prepare for the journey to Gondor before the land was gripped in an icy embrace.

_What awaits us in the White City?_ Legolas wondered. He was in no hurry to learn the answer, for Jordan's meeting with Mithrandir could possibly mark the end of his lover's presence in Middle-earth.

Riding along, the Elf brooded, wondering what the future held. Elves weren't normally concerned with thoughts of the future; however, closely mingling with mortals, Legolas began to think in finite terms. Elfkind and Mankind. Immortals and mortals - the merging of the two was impossibility in itself, the union destined to fail even before it began; pairings between the two Races would eventually be sundered by Death. Mortals with their fragile lives were but a blink in time – a single drop of water in an endless sea. There was so much that Legolas had done and seen in his long life—things he longed to share with Jordan, to see thru her eyes; so much to see and do - yet so little time afforded to the Sons and Daughters of Men. Time. What was it to an Elf? It was nothing, yet Legolas found himself counting every hour, every passing moment they were apart.

_Soon, Melamin._ Legolas thought to himself.

The passion and complexity of human emotion never ceased to amaze Legolas, and Jordan was no different from those of her kind. Though their initial encounter was less than auspicious, at first, curiosity and a genuine desire to aid this Woman had drawn him to Jordan Waters. . . yet at the feast when he first taught her the Elvish dance, till the moment he left her bed but days ago, the feelings he harbored towards his lover only strengthened and grew, till Legolas could no longer deny Jordan Waters had captured more than his attention.

"When did this happen?" Legolas murmured to himself.

Jordan touched him in more ways than just physical. Her sometimes-mercurial mood swings, her peculiar ways - Jordan Waters was everything he did not seek . . . mortal and flawed, yet in a short amount of time, somehow she had become everything he wanted.

With their first physical union, Legolas knew he had lost a part of himself to her forever. The fact was made glaringly clear, for when he was at home in Mirkwood, in his beloved woods, the Elf discovered he could not bear the thought of being away from his lover any more than he could think of eternity having an end. It simply could not be. Although he thoroughly enjoyed their passionate and enthusiastic joinings, it wasn't enough. To his vast surprise, and after great contemplation, Legolas was certain beyond doubt where his heart lay.

_What of you, Melamin?_ Legolas thought, wondering how Jordan truly feels towards him.

Jordan shared her body willingly; however, her mind was another matter altogether. There was something about Jordan . . .

something within her harboring both light and shadow that was different from the conflict common to the Mortals Legolas was familiar with. Something intangible, but present nonetheless the Elf had never before encountered. Legolas could not ignore the fact that there were aspects about her that raised questions, which whispered of unnatural abilities. Even now, as he did before in Trollshaw Forest, when Legolas questioned Jordan and attempted to probe deeper, she withdrew and changed the subject.

_What are you hiding, Melamin?_ Legolas wondered again.

It intrigued him to no end; perhaps the fact that Jordan did not easily bend to his wishes, nor freely share her thoughts added to her already immense appeal. However, her continued reluctance in opening up her mind and heart made him wonder if what they share is only to be physical . . . on her part.

"Nay. I shall have my answers. And we shall see where your heart lays, Melamin." Legolas said aloud. Arod snorted, his ears twitching back even as he raced on.

"'Tis nothing, Mellon." Legolas assured his mount.

The Elf came out of his reverie as they neared the borders of Imladris, the ring of power emanating from Imladris grew stronger; his mount felt it as well, for the rhythmic hoof beats quickened, carrying horse and rider closer to their destination. With a burst of speed, Arod powered his way up the steep mountain paths and switchbacks, surefooted and swift. Arriving at the entrance of the main courtyard, Legolas spoke to his horse-friend. Obediently, his mount turned in the direction of the stables. Legs splayed and sides heaving, steam rose from the horse's sweaty flanks. Legolas dismounted as the stable hands swiftly moved to tend to the Prince's horse, removing the saddle and covering Arod's glistening hide with a large cloth.

"My Lord, your packs will be delivered to your quarters." A servant dutifully informed the Wood Elf. Nodding his thanks, Legolas patted Arod's sweaty neck.

"You have my eternal gratitude, my friend." The Prince murmured to his weary mount. Snorting, Arod nudged the Elf with his head and neighed.

"Your effort was not in vain - I will go to her soon enough, Mellon." Legolas assured him. Grasping the reins, Legolas walked Arod around the stable grounds to cool him down.

"First, I will tend you." The Elf led the noble beast to a stall spread with clean, fragrant straw. Sweet hay, oats and a trough filled with fresh water awaited the horse. As a special treat, a bundle of tasty carrots were added to the horse's meal.

Legolas groomed his equine friend and checked for hidden sores. After settling Arod in the stables, Legolas bid the tired horse rest well before he returned to his quarters to stow his weapons. The Mirkwood Elf wasn't surprised when a servant arrived with word from Lord Elrond that an audience could wait until the afternoon, grateful for the Lord's indulgence. Only after learning Jordan yet remained in Imladris was the Elf able to completely relax. Not bothering to change, Legolas went in search of the Dwarf, for when he was next at his lover's side, Legolas didn't plan to be interrupted. It had been but days since he'd seen Jordan - seven to be exact, for Legolas had cut his visit home short and returned to Imladris sooner than expected, yet it felt much longer.

#

Gimli tossed another lump into the air as high as he could. Using the flat part of his small throwing axe's blade, the Dwarf knocked it away. It was a sport from Jordan's home that she had shown him; something called 'baseball'. Jordan attempted to explain the rules of this 'national past time' but it was lost to Gimli; all he cared about was seeing how far he could hit an object away. Squinting, the Dwarf followed the lump's flight path when, an arrow whizzed by – so close that Gimli felt the breeze stir the hair on his whiskered cheek before the projectile skewered the unlikely bird, cleaving the lump in two when it passed through it.

"Henh?!"

Recovering, Gimli scowled and embedded his axe in the nearby table before he quickly reached for more lumps, throwing them in the air as high as he could in different directions. Arrows pierced all, some exploding in a shower of crumbs. Gimli didn't turn as he freed his throwing axe.

"Not bad for an Elvish Princeling. You've returned early." The Dwarf grunted.

"I had to, to ensure you remain out of trouble; besides, we both know you are lost without me, Spangaer (bearded one). " Legolas replied glibly, running his elegant hands lovingly over the carvings of his Galadrhim bow.

"Who was lost in the Glittering Caves, eh?" Gimli retorted. The Elf just smiled, not rising to the bait.

"Besides, I have good reason to return early." Legolas said.

"And does that 'reason' know you are here?" Gimli asked with a knowing glance.

"Nay, but she will. You're up early." Legolas replied. Soon the bright daystar would peek over the horizon.

"There is much to prepare for our departure. Time should not be wasted in idleness." Gimli said.

"And what exactly are you doing, Gimli?" Legolas asked, puzzled. Turning his attention to the basket filled with lumps, the Elf wondered what they were.

"Err, err — well . . . " Gimli floundered for a suitable explanation as he squinted up at the Elf. Unable to come up with one, the Dwarf cleared his throat and pulled at his long, bushy beard as he followed the Elf's gaze. Quickly Gimli reached for one, examining it closely before taking a cautious bite.

"Mani naa tanya (What is that)?" Legolas asked.

"I was passing the kitchens this morn when the Apprentice was preparing to have these thrown out. 'Tis Lembas he said, but he must be mistaken, for I think these are but rocks in disguise. I near broke my teeth when I bit into one. Some you can actually bite into, but it will crumble into dust in your mouth. Others are perfect outside but raw inside. 'Tis fit for naught but Orcs." The Dwarf experimentally rapped the lump in his hand with his throwing axe before tossing it to the Elf.

"Go ahead." The Dwarf urged. Legolas arched a dark brow and gingerly bit into it – or at least tried. It was impossible.

"Try and break it in half."

The Elf attempted to do as instructed. He couldn't; Gimli grunted for the Elf to hand it over. The Dwarf placed it on the ground.

"Look, you." Gimli said as he took his double-headed battle-axe; the Dwarf hefted it overhead and gave a mighty downward swing. It bounced off the adamantine lump.

"Do you feel faint? Has this . . . activity sapped your strength?" Legolas joked.

"Pagh! I dinna think you can do better, Laddie!"

"I can think of better things to do with my strength, Spangaer." The Elf retorted good-naturedly, thinking about a warm bed and a certain dark haired, green eyed maiden. He looked forward their . . . reunion. Gimli ignored the obvious meaning behind the Elf's words. He had more important matters to consider.

"Mayhaps it can be used to repair the White City – mixed in with the mortar." The Dwarf mused.

It may not be edible, but there were other possibilities to consider. But then again, the Dwarf didn't want to drag the five full baskets all the way to Gondor. Swinging his axe again, this time Gimli was able to cleave the lump in two.

"Whoever made this should perhaps consider another trade." Legolas said. Beside him, Gimli nodded in agreement as he reached for another lump.

Drawing his arm back, the Dwarf tossed it into the air. It had risen but two inches from his hand when Legolas shot it with an arrow; Gimli eyes widened as it exploded into yellow crumbs around him. Laughing aloud at the Dwarf's outraged expression; Legolas slung his bow across his shoulder and crossed his arms over his chest.

"That could've been my hand!" Gimli shouted.

"I never miss a shot." The Elf tossed back arrogantly.

Sputtering indignantly, the Elf-friend bent and gathered two handfuls of lumps and hurled them at the Elf. Before they could connect with the Prince's head, Legolas whipped out his knives and slashed at the air quicker than the Dwarf could follow. With a smirk, Legolas sheathed his blades and shook the crumbs from his golden hair.

"Hrmmph!"

"Come, Gimli, we will search for suitable victuals and a barrel of the finest ale Imladris has to offer to restore your strength." Gimli's ruffled ego softened at the mention of two of his most favorite things. Glad to have his friend back, Gimli forgave the Elf his little prank; Legolas' preternatural skill with the bow was unrivaled, but the Elf would never hear those words from him.

In the common dining hall, the friends shared food and drink as Legolas told Gimli of the Binding Ceremony and the changes in the palace halls. The Dwarf stoically listened to the Elf's tale in silence, answering with an occasional grunt. The history between their families still rankled the Dwarf, but Gimli found he could now listen to Legolas speak about his home and sire without flying into a hot rage. Forgiveness had to begin somewhere. Despite his gruff exterior and coarse ways, the Dwarf was a romantic at heart, and the tender feelings he nurtured towards the Lady of Light often carried him through many dangers, and cheered him during many lonely nights, knowing a creature of immense beauty was alive and well. Gimli belched and pushed away from the table.

"Be off with you, Laddie. I must draft another correspondence to King Elessar and you've occupied enough of my valuable time." Gimli said. He clasped the Elf's shoulder affectionately.

"'Tis good to see your pointy ears again. I believe there's a Lady who would also be glad to see them as well." He added slyly, chuckling to himself as he walked away, not giving the Elf a chance to reply.

Legolas smiled and rose from the table as well. Spying Ceallach in the hall, he motioned for her to come. The she-Elf bowed respectfully, listening quietly as the Prince murmured his request. The maiden nodded and assured the Prince she would see to the task. The Mirkwood Elf grinned to himself as he made his way to his quarters to bathe and change. Legolas hoped the Lady would be willing to see more than his ears.

#

Standing in the middle of Jordan's quarters, Legolas frowned; she was not there. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, the room was filled with the familiar scent of his lover and her favorite soap. It washed over him, soothing and stimulating at the same time. Lifting the dome to the tray on the table, he saw the servant had done as he requested. There was more than enough food to see them through until the next morning. Legolas chuckled softly, remembering the look on Ceallach's face when she first discovered him in Jordan's quarters. The Elf grinned with approval at the large flagon of Miruvor; Jordan would need its strength imparting property. The Mirkwood Prince planned to show his lover just how much he missed her. Crossing to the bed, Legolas laid a hand on it; he felt the faint residual warmth and smiled. Jordan could not have been gone long. Eager to see her, the Elf left the room and headed where he knew she would be . . .

#

Hands loosely clasped behind his back, Lord Elrond stood by an open window in his library, listening quietly to his head Baker's report; confident the Elf before him was capable of handling the many details required to keep Imladris' resident and guests properly fed during the coming winter, Imladris' ruler inquired after his guest's well being. Ancalimë quickly informed the Ruler the woman's presence in the kitchens was not under duress, but at the Lady's insistence. Elrond's sharp brow raised in bemusement as he wondered at Jordan's continued attempts to repay his hospitality.

_Such peculiar ways._ Elrond thought to himself.

"My Lord, shall I remove her from the kitchens?" Ancalimë asked.

"See to it she is not over taxed; I do not believe Lord Legolas will be pleased to discover her . . . laboring in such a manner. That is all." The Ruler instructed.

Ancalimë inclined his head in acknowledgement before turning to leave. He had just the task in mind for her; it would both keep her occupied and well out of the kitchens. . .

#

Pallanén was overseeing the mixing of another batch of Lembas when Ancalimë appeared; judging from his face, the head Baker was not pleased.

"What is the matter, Master?" Pallanén inquired.

"Weevils have ruined much flour; the barrels must be thoroughly cleansed and retreated. Where is Lady Jordan?"

"She is in the scullery, Master." Pallanén answered quickly.

"Very well." The Elf said curtly as he turned on his heel. Pallanén returned his attention to the Lembas. He couldn't risk this batch going awry as well.

Ancalimë found Jordan in the lower kitchens. Sleeves rolled to her elbows, the Immortal's hands were buried in a tub of hot, sudsy water. Wearing a suede tunic and leggings, her dampened hair clung to her flushed face; long tendrils of black hair escaped her low ponytail as the steam from the hot water rose up. Stacked nearby were towers of platters and other dishes that she'd washed. A low-Apprentice was busy at the woman's side, drying and sorting the items she placed in the draining racks.

"Too bad they don't have rubber gloves here." Jordan muttered into the steam for the umpteenth time.

Her hands felt raw, her fingertips were wrinkled like raisins. Doing dishes all day was not what she had in mind, yet Jordan washed on, determined to not show any sign of weariness – even as the Apprentices came bearing more dishes to wash. Despite the endless activity, instead of pushing the ominous feelings to the back of her mind, the monotonous task only gave Jordan more time to ponder what exactly was alarming her.

_Pull yourself together, Jordie. _she sternly told herself, wondering if she was on the verge of a panic attack.

"Lady Jordan." Between the rattling of the dishes, and her thoughts, she didn't hear the Elf.

"Lady Jordan!" she looked up sharply in surprise.

The serving platter she was about to rinse slipped from her fingers and into the sudsy water. It landed with a big splash, sloshing water onto the front of her tunic. The dark brown material turned black as the water soaked through. Jordan mopped the perspiration and beads of water from her brow with a damp portion of her sleeve.

"Hello." Jordan replied uncertainly.

"You - " the Baker said, addressing the low-Apprentice behind her.

"Finish this. Lady Jordan, if you'd be so kind as to accompany me, if it is agreeable with you, I have a task I ask you to perform." Judging from the way the Apprentice quickly did as bidden, the Immortal knew the Elf addressing her was in some position of authority in the kitchens.

_When in Rome . . . _she thought wryly to herself.

"Of course." Jordan replied. Drying her hands, and wringing out her sodden tunic as best she could, Jordan smiled at the Apprentice on her way out and followed the cook. She quickly lost her sense of direction in the many turns and stairways that made up the kitchens.

"Where are we going?" Jordan asked.

"To the store room. Five flour barrels must be cleaned before they can be retreated. It appears weevils have found their way inside and ruined the flour. By the grace of the Valar, only a few were contaminated."

They stopped before a massive door reinforced by band of decoratively wrought iron; at Ancalimë's touch, the doors swung open. Jordan followed the Elf inside and looked around the vast storeroom. Inside were large – no, make it huge oak barrels (that reached her chest) that must have numbered in the hundreds. Five were pulled to the fore.

"Please remove the spoiled flour. After you have finished what you can, kindly inform the Apprentice, and she or he will see to the treatment." Ancalimë said.

Jordan was unsure how to proceed, for it wasn't exactly a task she commonly performed. Still, how bad could it be? The Baker kept his smile to himself as he watched the dismay flit across her face. The task would surely keep her occupied for some time. At least long enough to ensure his Apprentices could carry out their duties without her disastrous assistance.

"Is it beyond your ability?" the Baker inquired.

"No." Jordan said slowly. Mustering her enthusiasm – after all, the Elves were feeding her – the Immortal forced a polite smile to her face.

"No. I can do it."

"Very well, I shall leave you to your task." With that, Ancalimë left.

Jordan sat down on a small, narrow crate, and faced the barrels, wondering how best to accomplish her task. Beside the crate was a box filled with assorted tools. Jordan scuffed at it with her toe. Rising to the challenge, Jordan moved the crate closer, pried off the lid and peered inside; she smiled as a plan began to form in her mind.

"Work smarter not harder, Jordie." She told herself.

Hopping off, the Immortal went in search of the Apprentices.

#

"Hah!" Jordan thought smugly to herself, feeling a certain amount of satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment.

Working closely, and with a little ingenuity, together, Jordan and the Elves dumped the infested flour into a wheeled cart to be transported away. Jordan marveled at the Elves' physical strength. If she hadn't witnessed how easily the Elves toted the heavy cart up and down the stairs, she wouldn't have believed it possible. Now all that remained to be done was the removal of the hard crust that coated the bottom of the barrels. It was tricky laying the barrels down without them rolling around as she crawled in and worked, but Jordan managed and dislodged the crust in short order. With determination and proper body mechanics, Jordan set the barrels upright and inspected them once more. The Immortal was about to consider her task complete when she noticed an inch of crusty flour on the bottom of the fifth barrel.

"Now how'd I miss that?" she wondered.

Despite her better judgment, Jordan decided she didn't want to lay the heavy barrel on its side again until after she loosed the crust. Instead, she scooted the crate to the barrel and stepped onto it. Bent at the waist, Jordan was buried head and shoulders within as she precariously balanced on one tiptoe. She used her other leg as a counterbalance while straining to dislodge the hardened flour at the very corner.

"Stubborn flour barnacles." she muttered.

"Ah – Ah - AH-CHOO!"

The pulverized flour Jordan loosened rose in a cloud, filling her mouth and nose; unfortunately, the enclosed space magnified her rather loud sneeze and set her ears ringing. Jordan went limp, momentarily stunned and disoriented. The edge of the barrel cutting into her waist didn't help matters, either. With one hand braced against the side so she didn't fall into the barrel, Jordan scratched her itchy nose on her sleeve and sniffed before resuming her task, determinedly chipping away. Jordan didn't know what was worse: peeling mountains of potatoes or working in a cloud of flour - make that weevil-filled flour.

"Just . . . a little more . . ." she grunted. This barrel's 'growth' proved to be particularly stubborn. But she was tougher.

Jordan was so engrossed in her task that she didn't feel the touch on her leg. She did feel when the hand slid up her calf, to her thigh, and up to her buttocks under her tunic. Startled, the Immortal came out of the barrel quickly, wincing when she hit her head hard on the edge. It would've been an impressive display of reflex if Jordan hadn't forgotten she was standing on a narrow crate.

"Whhooa. . . !" Even as she fell backwards, Jordan intended to send a message to her assailant; her arm slashed through the air stabbing wildly as she fell. Both her fall and her arm were stopped before they could land.

"I am unarmed!" The Elf said quickly.

He was in no danger, for his reflexes were quicker than hers. Catching the woman in his arm, his free hand stayed her wrist with his other hand before Jordan could bury her tool in his neck. He eyed the sharp tool with an amused expression on his face. Blinking in surprise, Jordan thought for a second the Elf who held her inches above the floor looked exactly like her lover. . .

_: : : : Taking to the treetops, the Mirkwood Elf swiftly made his way towards Jordan's glade. Though the trees whispered Jordan hadn't been there yet, the Elf waited, confident she'd arrive soon. When it became apparent she wasn't going to show, Legolas headed towards the House of Healing. He didn't find her there, either. Watching the Prince search the house for his lover amused the Healer. Læurenthail took pity on the Prince and casually suggested he stop by the kitchens. After thanking the Healer, the Wood Elf did as suggested. _

_Upon arrival, he did not find Jordan among the vegetables that were being prepared for the noon meal. An Apprentice informed the Prince that the woman had been there, but had since left, and was last seen heading towards the bakery. Thanking him, the Mirkwood Elf did not see his lover in the bakery, either; he asked another Apprentice, who informed the Wood Elf the Lady Jordan was in the scullery. _

_You are leading me on a merry chase, Melamin. Legolas thought to himself, bemused. _

_Pursued and admired for his beauty by both Elf and Mankind, Legolas could have anyone he wanted to satisfy his physical _

_needs, and choose he did over the centuries; however, t__his was certainly another unfamiliar feeling and unique situation for the Elf. Legolas never before had to pursue a maiden. . . and certainly not thru the kitchens. _

_Thankfully, Pallanén was passing thru the bakery when he saw the Prince and directed him to the lower storeroom. Standing in the doorway, if it wasn't for the fact he was intimately acquainted with every curve and line of her body, Legolas wouldn't have recognized his lover buried halfway in the barrel. : : : : _

"Legolas?! You're back!" the Prince released his hold on Jordan's wrist and removed the pick from her hand. Jordan was about to throw her arms around his neck when she hesitated, not wanting to dirty him or his clothes. Legolas solved her dilemma by kissing her thoroughly before he nuzzled her neck, making her laugh.

"Did you miss me?" Legolas teasingly asked, looking her over with a smile on his beautiful face.

The Elf raised a brow at her appearance. Jordan's black hair and face was coated with a dusting of yellow-white flour. The front of her damp tunic was crusty with it as well. As far as the Elf was concerned, all was well in Middle Earth. His dear friend, Gimli, was safe with him in Imladris, Elessar had risen above the failures of his forebears, fulfilled his destiny as the rightful King of Gondor and wed his heart's desire, the Evenstar. As for Legolas, the woman he desired above all others, was in his arms once more - though not quite in the way he imagined.

"What would you say if I said 'no'?" Jordan asked before kissing his cheek.

"That you lie." Legolas replied, hoping for this very reception - minus a pick in the neck, of course.

"Prove it." she challenged.

"I will." The Elf promised suggestively against her cheek before setting his lover on her feet. Legolas put his fists on his hips, cocked his head and studied the woman before him.

"After you've had a bath." He added with a grin.

"I'm almost done." Jordan said.

Needless to say, Jordan didn't make the Elf wait too long, especially since her lover made short work of the task that remained. Soon the lovers were on their way; the Apprentices paused in their duties as the Mirkwood Elf and the Woman passed thru the kitchens. Lady Jordan's flour coated face was clean around the lips and neck, while the Prince's face was smudged with it in the corresponding areas. Smiling, the Elves returned to their work.


	24. Many Meetings

Methos kept to the shadows as he walked ahead of his companions through the forest. The conversation between the Highlander and the younger Immortal's Watcher seemed inordinately loud in the quiet forest; the Eldest was only half-listening, for he was still mulling over his own earlier conversation with Gregory. . .

_:::: "Have you ever wished that certain. . . 'events' never happened?" the Ancient One asked. A thousand regrets shuffled through the Immortal's mind in a sorrowful parade._

"_Who hasn't? We've all wished that before." Gregory replied wryly, watching his old friend with a sad expression on his weathered face._

"_But . . . have you ever wanted to travel back in time to undo a wrong? Have you ever tried?" Methos ventured. _

_The older gentleman didn't need his ears to hear the regret in the Immortal's quiet voice. Gregory's snowy brow rose, his gaze at once sharp yet kind. _

"_Rarely does anything happen by chance, Thanatos." _

"_The name's 'Methos'.__I am not that person . . . anymore. I've changed." The reformed Immortal said quietly. The Greek word was a constant, shameful reminder of his past dastardly deeds and who he had once been. _

_ "Thanatos . . . Adam . . . Methos. Everything happens for a reason. Your brain may not know why; in fact, it may never figure it out. Nevertheless, your heart knows. Your heart will always know.":::: _

_Maybe, Gregory . . . maybe._ The Immortal thought to himself before his thoughts were interrupted.

"What the hell's up with this weather?" Joe asked, squinting up at the grey sky.

Though the sky had lightened, the sun had not burned through the gray fog obscuring the path before them. It shrouded the surrounding area. In fact, it seemed to follow them. They had not heard the chirping of birds or the chatter of squirrels for some time now and the visibility was limited to thirty feet.

"How much farther to this damn place?" Joe called, uneasy. The Watcher's question brought Methos back to the present.

_Good question, Joe,_ Methos thought, wondering the exact same thing. If the information the Halcyon gave him was correct, they still had at least a mile to go.

'_Cut through the woods till you get to the great East Road.' You forgot to mention we would need transportation - or better yet, a compass, Caine. I should have seen that one coming._ The Ancient One thought, annoyed. Stopping in his tracks, the Old Man turned.

"Not much further Joe, we're almost there." Methos answered as he waited for his companions to catch up with him. Sheltered under the branches, the leaves and weak sunlight eerily stippled the elder Immortal in shadow.

"You know, I really don't want to see this village that badly. The beer can't be that good -let's go back." Joe suggested; the Watcher's prosthetics were starting to chafe and irritate his leg's stumps.

"No!" Methos said quickly - perhaps too quickly, judging from the odd looks that Duncan and Joe gave him. Methos gave them a lopsided grin and tempered his voice to a more reasonable tone.

"We're almost there Joe. To come all this way just to turn back now - come on! Where's your sense of adventure?" the Ancient One said cajolingly.

"With my heart in San Francisco." the Watcher sniped.

"Joe's right Methos," Duncan said with a pointed look at their friend.

"You okay Joe?" The Highlander asked gruffly, concerned for the Watcher's comfort.

"I'm fine." The Watcher snapped. Despite the cool weather and their leisurely pace, Joe was leaning heavily on his cane. There was a light sheen of perspiration on his brow and his whiskered face was flushed.

"Nothing like a little alcohol to kill the bugs," Methos encouraged the tired Watcher. They could not stop just yet and the Ancient One knew they had to reach the village soon.

"We can do this another day, Methos."

"No, we can't, MacLeod." the Ancient One replied. The Highlander turned towards his friend with an impatient look.

"What do you mean? Of course we can." Duncan said; he had not planned to take a walk this deep into the forest either, and was thankful that though his loafers were not exactly made for hiking, they were at least very comfortable. 

"This pub won't be here for long," the Eldest warned.

"Then we can catch another Festival in the States. If a Renaissance pub's brew is so important, we'll go back and get my car." The Highlander's firm tone indicated his decision as final. Methos had to think quickly, although fortunately it was the Watcher that provided a timely distraction.

"What time is it, anyway?" Joe asked. Methos' gaze swung towards the Watcher. The brief respite had given the mortal his second wind, but his face was still slightly flushed.

Looking up, the Watcher searched for the sun. Though he couldn't see it, its light shone through but its warmth couldn't penetrate the fog. Despite his wool blazer and the unaccustomed exercise, the Watcher felt chilled to the bone. Duncan glanced at his watch. He frowned and tapped it. Taking it off, the Highlander shook it briefly before studying it closely.

"Damned Rolex isn't worth the ten grand I paid for it." the Highlander complained.

"Shoulda stuck with a Timex, Mac. Mine's taken lots o' lickins' but keeps on tickin'. Sometimes the cheap stuff's better than the expensive crap." Joe said.

"Well, it stopped at 10:59." Duncan replied, still trying to figure out what caused his costly timepiece to stop working.

"We've been out here that long?" Joe asked, incredulous. When they arrived at Gregory's shoppe, it was during the early morning.

"Are you sure it was working right?" the Watcher asked Duncan.

"I just bought it . . .yesterday." the Highlander replied, perplexed.

"Don't worry about the time, MacLeod. We've got more pressing matters to see to." Methos said. Duncan looked up at the sudden neighing of horses. The damp weather had muffled the sound of their hooves.

"Friends of yours?" Duncan asked as he sized up the arrivals.

"Hardly," was Methos' acerbic reply.

Two men on horseback were before them. Behind them, Joe heard the rustle of branches being pushed aside and leaves crunching underfoot. Turning, he watched as three more men appeared from the trees, moving towards them in a flanking pattern.

"They don't look very friendly." Joe observed.

"That's an astute observation if ever I heard one, Joe." Methos commented dryly.

"Is this part of the Festival?" the Watcher asked when the men drew their swords and short daggers. The staged show looked quite real.

"Authenticity is one of the things they really try for." Methos commented.

"Well, well. Wha 'ave we 'ere?" the leader drawled to his mounted friend as he gazed at the trio.

"Looks like dead men to me." his companion replied.

"Funny, I don't feel dead. Do you feel dead?" Methos asked the Highlander. Duncan shot the Eldest an irritated look.

"Look, guys - we don't want any trouble, okay?" the Highlander said sternly. He was not in the mood to play along with the 'Highway Robbery' scenario.

"Hear that? Brave words for a dead man." the Leader sneered. His companions nodded, their gleeful expressions were a bit too genuine for the Watcher's comfort.

"We don't have time for this." The Highlander said, impatient to be on their way.

"Too good for the likes of us, eh?" the ruffian to the left of the Scotsman retorted, tossing his dagger back and forth between his hands in an effort meant to intimidate - it did not work.

From atop his pale horse, the Leader assessed their prey. The slightly leaner one did not look to be a threat, nor did the old man leaning on his walking stick. The dark, swarthier man however could be a problem. He would need to be dealt with first; the others could wait. With a look, the man on horseback signaled his cohorts to attack; the second mounted thug dismounted from his horse to help his companions. The Immortals exchanged glances, keeping the Watcher between them in a protective circle.

"I'm all for historical accuracy, but this is going overboard. The Festival Coordinator is going to hear about this." The Highlander warned the advancing men.

Ignoring the Clansman's words, the men advanced, confident the trio was outnumbered. Thug number One rushed the Highlander. Duncan lightly sidestepped his advance and pushed his attacker, sending him sprawling in the dirt. Spurred by his companions' derisive laughter, the hooligan sprang to his feet and rushed the Highlander again. This time, ruffian number Two joined him. Again, the Clansman dodged their attacks and sent the men to the dirt, followed by number Three.

"Curse you, stand still!" bellowed thug Two.

The remaining two offenders advancing on Joe and the Ancient One hooted with derisive laughter at their fellow companions' troubles, for the Highlander proved to be more of a challenge than they initially thought. They digressed to help their companions subdue the troublesome Scot.

"Feel free to join me, Methos!" the Highlander said sarcastically as he glared at his companion. He now was surrounded by four baddies. Unfortunately, the Old Man declined the Scotsman's invitation.

"Thanks, I'll wait a bit if you don't mind." Methos answered.

"Don't you think you should help him Methos?" Joe asked, not liking the odds. One, then two of the men went sprawling in the dirt. They got up for another try at the Highlander.

"Why? MacLeod can take care of himself – this will be a cakewalk for him, Joe. He's doing fine - oh…I take it back." Methos winced as one of the attackers managed to plant his shoulder in the Highlander's lower back when he was otherwise engaged. The Immortal and Watcher heard the Highlander's grunt of pain before he shook his attackers off.

"You know, you really can be a pain in the ass sometimes Adam." Joe said with an irritated look on his face.

"Part of my charm, Joe," Methos smirked.

"Anytime you'd like to join me Methos!" the Highlander yelled as he wrenched a dagger away from one of his attackers and dodged the others trying to tackle him.

"Four against one?" the Watcher asked, watching his charge. Duncan's hair was disheveled and his clothes mussed, but otherwise was okay.

"I am helping, Joe." the Ancient One said calmly. He was watching the Highlander fight empty-handed, picking up a couple of moves and footwork he had not come across.

"Really? Could've fooled me," Joe said.

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm protecting _you_." Methos said, tucking his hands into his overcoat pockets. As if on cue, two of the men broke off from the fray and rushed the Immortal and Watcher, thinking them easier targets.

"Get your back to the tree, Joe," the Immortal instructed as he placed himself between the Watcher and their attackers, who had their daggers drawn.

Methos reached into his overcoat and drew his single-handed broadsword; in his eyes was a cold, steely glint. Their attackers hesitated for a second before pressing onward as the Immortal stepped in front of Joe. Behind him, the Watcher moved well away to avoid the Ivanhoe's long reach as Methos swung it around. After a brief clash of blades, the Immortal brought the wide, hazelnut shaped pommel of his Ivanhoe crashing down on his opponent's skull. The sickening crack of bone splintering filled the air. The second ruffian followed his fallen cohort on the packed dirt as Methos firmly gripped the hilt of his sword, and used its substantial heft to deliver a nose breaking punch. There was no grace, no honor in the struggle. The bottom line was survival, pure and simple, and it was what Methos did best.

Rolling in the dirt with blood streaming from his nose, the ruffian moaned with pain. Holding his sword high overhead, the Immortal felt the surge of the familiar violence well up. It would be so easy to revert to his old form and kill him, a tiny voice in his mind urged. Taking advantage of the Immortal's hesitation, the scoundrel scrambled to his feet and stumbled away, heading for the trees. Every instinct compelled the Horseman to go after the fleeing attacker and make sure he was not a . . . 'problem' anymore. Instead, with his foot, Methos nudged the unconscious man sprawled at his feet.

"There, see? MacLeod can handle the rest. Besides. . . I might kill them." Methos said calmly. Joe looked sharply at the Ancient One. He did not say a word, for the look on his face said it all.

"What?" Methos asked irritably.

"A little overkill, don't ya think?" Joe asked.

"Looked real enough to me. When someone comes swinging a sword or weapon at me, I prefer to be the one who is still standing. By whatever means necessary," Methos said. The Watcher's disapproving look made the Immortal grit his teeth.

_That's the trouble with consciences: they made you feel guilt when you didn't want to_. Methos fumed to himself.

With a long-suffering sigh, the Immortal drove the tip of his sword into the ground and hunkered down on his haunches. He put two fingers to the man's neck, feeling for the carotid pulse. It was weak but steady.

"Don't worry Joe." Methos assured his friend as he rose to his feet. The Immortal nodded towards the two men flanking the Highlander. The Ancient One nudged the limp form again with his foot.

"They do this kind of thing for a living. This bastard will have one helluva headache when he wakes up." Methos said.

_. . And migraines for life. If he lives._ The Immortal thought to himself.

"Well, I don't think these stunt guys count getting hurt as just part of a day's work. I hope the underwriter of their insurance company does not cancel their policies 'cause of you." Joe said.

_Somehow I do not think they will._ The Ancient One thought.

"Now's a good time, Methos!" Duncan yelled out. Methos spared the Highlander a glance, but did not move to help.

"Hurry it up, MacLeod - we need to get going." He yelled back.

Well aware of his attackers' positions, Duncan focused on the one before him. He grabbed the thug's arm and twisted his wrist, forcing him to drop the dagger before bringing his fists down on the back of his head. The thug collapsed to ground without a sound, knocked out cold. Behind him scoundrel Number Four rushed the Highlander, grabbing him from behind and rendering him immobile. Duncan allowed the thug to continue thinking he had the upper hand as he assessed the situation. Seeing the fight was not going well - with two of his men down and one run off, with a growl of frustration, the Leader of the pack dismounted, drew his sword, and stalked towards the Highlander.

It was time for the Immortal to make his move. The speed and ease with which Duncan turned out of the scoundrel's grab position surprised his attacker. The thug did not have time to counter the Immortal's unexpected move, for the Highlander applied a hard elbow strike to his attacker's jaw - the move resulting in an instant knock out. The Scot turned to meet the new threat. Eyeing the ruffian's blade, the Highlander's own blade appeared in his hand as if by magic. Duncan fanned it until it sang, and rested it against his shoulder, his left hand held out.

"You prance about as a woman!" the Leader sneered, hoping to cloud the Highlander's mind with his insult.

"Wanna dance?" Duncan invited sarcastically.

With the sinuous grace of a snake, Duncan assumed a fighting stance. As the combatants circled each other warily, Methos scanned the trees, making sure no surprises came out of the woodwork. Satisfied, the Immortal tucked his Ivanhoe back into his overcoat.

"Hey, where you going'?" Joe shouted after him as Methos jogged away.

"To get our ride." the Ancient One called over his shoulder.

"Oh, yeah . . . c'mon, baby. Shhhh, easy now . . . don't be afraid." The Ancient One murmured softly.

Speaking in low tones, Methos slowly walked towards the horses. They neighed sharply, nostrils flaring, as they smelled the unfamiliar scent of the Immortal. Sensing the darkness within the Ancient One, the skittish beasts backed away. Though the whites of their eyes were visible, to the Ancient One's relief, the horses didn't bolt. Inwardly, Methos sighed. No matter how much he would like to convince himself he had changed, the animals thought otherwise. Methos slowly reached out and caught hold of the reins. They were magnificent specimens of horseflesh: the dappled gray horse stood seventeen hands high at the withers, while the smoky black measured at least eighteen hands.

"Ah, two for two, Joe!" the Ancient One called out as he led them back to the Watcher. Methos suddenly stopped. Slowly, he shifted the reins to one hand.

"Methos?" Joe called to his friend, wondering why the Immortal stopped.

Methos wore a peculiar expression on his face transforming his visage into someone he almost did not recognize. The tiny, humorless smile on his lips and the cold look in Methos' eyes was something he had seen only in the eyes of hardened service Veterans and criminals whose lives had passed beyond redemption. It was easy to see why the Immortal before him once was called 'Death', the fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Joe shouted, alarmed.

The Immortal's Glock appeared in his right hand, and pointed at the Watcher's head. Even if he were to hit the ground, the Watcher saw first hand Methos' skill with firearms. Awarded a medal for marksmanship during his tour in Vietnam, Joe did not need combat experience to know the Immortal was not going to miss. The Watcher stared at his friend and colleague in horrified fascination as he pulled the trigger. Joe squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the moment of impact.

Instead, the scream of pain and the sound of a body hitting the ground hard reached his ears. Turning, the Watcher saw the thug, whose nose Methos had broken, lay on his back clutching his shoulder; blood streamed from between his fingers. Beside him lay a dagger.

"Protecting you, Joe," Methos calmly replied as the gun disappeared in the folds of his overcoat.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" the Watcher exclaimed, outraged. This was getting out of hand! If he did not know any better, Joe really thought the man planned to stab him - and in the back, no less! Even if all this was play-acting, Joe was a little shaken.

"Since when do they allow this kind of stunt?" Joe asked. Methos just shrugged. "Wait - aren't the police going to want to question you?" the Watcher asked.

"I don't think so, he'll be fine. The round went through his shoulder." Methos countered.

"How do you know?" the Watcher persisted.

"Trust me Joe. Would I lie to you?" the Immortal asked.

"Have you done anything else but?" Joe asked.

_Only when I had to._ Methos thought to himself.

"I could ask you the same thing, now, couldn't I?" the Ancient One returned without missing a beat "Are you forgetting I was a doctor at one point in time?" Methos asked impatiently.

"Oh. Yeah," Joe conceded.

"The human body doesn't change much, you know. Like I told you, I hit soft tissue, not bone or any vital organs." The Ancient One replied.

"Well, are you sure the cops aren't going to come after us - you?" the Watcher asked, worriedly.

"No, they won't." The Immortal answered patiently. "Besides, what's there to tell? You were threatened and I acted accordingly. End of story - Que peche?"

"Sure. Fine. Whatever." Joe knew he was not going to get a straight answer from the Immortal.

The Old Man's boyish grin was completely at odds with his demeanor but seconds later he handed a shaken but grateful Joe the reins. Methos studied the unusual riding tack and quickly checked the horses' girths, ensuring that the saddles were secure. The Ancient One tossed a sword scabbard to the ground. He had another use in mind for the holster. While Methos checked the horses over, Joe watched the Highlander's progress. The Leader proved to be a man of some skill with the blade, but he was no match for the Highlander. The ease with which Duncan unarmed his opponent was almost unfair - for in a matter of seconds, the Leader lay sprawled in the dirt, unconscious. Dusting himself off, the Highlander turned to his companions. One of the minions was struggling to his feet.

"Stay down!" the Highlander ordered, his Katana held to the thug's throat. With a slight twist of his wrist, Duncan made his point with the razor sharp tip of his sword. Obediently, the thug glared at the Immortal as he lay back down, submitting.

"Took you long enough, MacLeod," Methos said.

"No thanks to you!" he shot back.

"Come along, we need to get going." Methos continued smoothly.

"Stealing horses now, Methos?"

"Borrowing." the Eldest clarified. "Don't look this gift in the mouth." the Antediluvian One said with a pointed look at the Watcher.

"Hey Mac - this sure beats walking until we can catch a cab back. I've had enough excitement for one day." Joe said. All he wanted to do was get back to his bar.

_Its just beginning, Joe._ Methos thought to himself, amused.

"Let's just get the hell to this pub and back home," the Watcher suggested, handing the reins to the Ancient One.

"I couldn't have said it better myself," Methos commented as he secured the smoky black stallion's reins to his saddle.

"C'mon, Joe, give me your cane." the Immortal instructed. The Highlander went back to the bandits and was busy throwing their weapons deep into the mist-cloaked trees. Searching for their blades would keep them occupied - at least long enough for the Immortals and Watcher to make their getaway.

Methos slid the Watcher's cane into the holster previous occupied by the Leader's sword, taking care it would not slip from the straps. Swinging onto the horse's back with ease, Methos placed his feet firmly into the stirrups.

"These horses are huge!" the Watcher said.

"You've got a gift for stating the obvious, Joe." Methos said good-naturedly.

"Yeah, well just remember who's not quick on their feet here, all right?" Joe retorted.

"Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah." Methos said, ignoring the Watcher's splenetic expression as he leaned down.

"Grab my arm, Joe. Upsy daisy." the Ancient One said.

With the Highlander's help, the Immortals settled the Watcher behind the Eldest. Duncan adjusted the angle of Joe prosthetics before taking the reins of the dark stallion from Methos. Swinging the gray's head east, Methos urged his mount forward, leaving the Highlander no choice but to follow.

"How'd you know we were going to be attacked?" Duncan asked as they rode along. 

"I didn't. It does not take a rocket scientist to figure that out when you are outnumbered. Things don't normally go well for those on the receiving end of the bullying stick." The Eldest said. Duncan was unusually quiet as the trio rode along. It was usually an indication the Highlander was thinking.

"Now, isn't horseback much better than leather express?" Methos asked breezily in an attempt to distract the Highlander. It was dangerous when MacLeod started thinking.

"Are we there yet?" Joe asked. Behind the Ancient one, Joe felt every sway and motion of the horse's movement; lacking his lower limbs made it difficult to grip the horse. If he wasn't hanging on to the back of the saddle, he would surely fall off.

"Makes me glad we can't have kids." Methos commented, relieved for the timely distraction. Despite himself, Duncan smiled.

"I thought you enjoyed my company Joe." Methos said, affecting a hurt tone.

"Even for you, my patience is really getting thin, Old Man." Joe said smartly.

"Fine thanks after I save your ass. Mind the branch." Methos replied as he ducked, smiling at Joe's colorful cursing. The Watcher got a face full of branches.

"We're here," the Ancient One announced suddenly, looking around. "Well, almost." Methos amended.

"Where?" Joe asked, bewildered. They were still in the forest, with nothing but trees to the side, trees behind and more trees in front. The trees were everywhere.

"Where we should be," the Ancient one answered with a grin.

_You will know it when you see it._ The Ancient one remembered Caine's words.

The horses stepped onto a wide road. In the distance, they could see a settlement, most likely the village of which Gregory spoke. As they drew nearer, the trio could see the village guarded from outsiders by a deep ditch and a hedge. The great East Road passed through this hedge on its western side and exited again in the southern corner where the hedge and dike met the sides of a great hill. At each of these points stood a gate, which presumably was closed and guarded after nightfall. Passing through the gate, Joe could not help but think they had taken a rather large step back in time. The Watcher estimated at least one hundred stone houses made a large part of the landscape. There were patches of fields where horses roamed, as well as a few cows. The details of the village were intricate, so much so that the Watcher could swear it was the real thing - down to some of the villager's rotted teeth and dirty faces. Joe had to constantly remind himself they were at the Renaissance festival.

"These festivals get pretty detailed, don't they Old Man?" Joe remarked. The Ancient One merely smiled over his shoulder.

"Ever get the feeling we're the ones who're odd?" the Watcher asked.

Indeed, for since they entered the stone gates, the Immortals and Watcher drew many stares. Wherever they passed, men and women stopped on the narrow road and openly gawked at them, before quickly hurrying on their way. Others refused to meet their eyes. Everywhere, the participants of the festival were in character. Most of the men were broad of body and short in stature, while others were tall. Brown seemed to be the dominant hair color. These participants were outdoors folks as well, for many of them sported sun-weathered skin, the lines on their faces carved deep as they glanced up at the men on horseback. Pipes jutted from many mouths, but not pipes like Duncan had seen his fellow Immortal, Fitzcairn, use to puff away. The current fashion of the stems was long and curved.

"Are we at the North Pole?"

"What makes you say that?" Methos asked, curious.

"Look over there - I didn't know Elves were here, Methos. I thought they liked cold weather." Joe commented quietly, staring back at the unusually short people.

"You know, Joe, in over 400 years I've never seen a werewolf, Elf, or vampire. This place could almost make me believe in Elves." The Highlander said in an undertone, nodding towards the short people that captured their collective attentions.

Mixed along with the men were little folk; not even the tallest seemed to exceed four feet in height. For their height and build, the 'Elves' limbs were perfectly proportioned . . . except for their large, hairy bare feet. Even the female Elves had hairy feet. Because of their short height, the Watcher thought them to be children; after a closer look, he decided their surprisingly mature faces were not child like at all. Although the Elf-like creatures moved about the village freely, Joe could see most were headed towards the hillsides above the stone houses of the village.

"Maybe if we look hard enough, we'll find a troll hiding under a bridge." Duncan joked.

"And the Billy goats gruff - huh Mac?" Joe joined.

"You never know . . . I don't know about you, but I'm ready to get off this horse. Let's go see what this place has to offer." the Methos suggested.

"Where are we going Methos?" Duncan asked.

"To get a beer, MacLeod. Isn't that why we're here?" Methos replied.

"Where?"

"Well, it looks to me as if most of the traffic is headed over there." Methos replied, nodding towards a sign with a rearing white horse. "Seems to me like a good place to start," the Eldest said.

The Ancient One turned his mount towards a stable where other travelers on horseback were leading their steeds. While the Highlander helped the Watcher off the gray horse, the stable attendant cautiously approached the tall, dark stranger garbed in a long outer coats. One could never be too careful these days; strange folk were about and the three riding up to his stable were like none he had ever seen. Methos spoke with the stable hand -whose name he learned was 'Bob' - in low tones, listening quietly to the answers. He studied the short man before him with undisguised curiosity before he pressed something into his hand. Wide eyed, the stable hand stared at the gold coin and bit it before nodding eagerly as he took their two horses away. Methos went to join his companions who were waiting for him beneath the wooden sign. When they entered, all conversation slowly came to a halt.

"Talk about making a dramatic entrance." the Watcher muttered under his breath.

The patrons within the establishment cast uneasy, suspicious stares towards the Strangers. The good folk of Bree recently learned Middle-Earth was full of strange creatures beyond count, as well as strange folk abroad. The Strangers entering the tavern caused more than a few uneasy stares to be thrown their way. Standing just inside the doorway, the trio let their sights adjust to the dimly lit interior before entering; against the wall leaned various staves. Since there was no billiard tables present one would correctly presume them to be walking sticks. There was something about the great common room's exposed wooden beams - the smoky atmosphere from lit pipes and the simple garb of rough, homespun wool that made Methos and Duncan wax nostalgic for their early days.

Joe, on the other hand, did not see a single amenity to which he was accustomed. No light bulbs hung from the ceiling, every tabletop held a single candle in a pewter holder. No music blared from a jukebox or radio, just the chatter of voices and raucous laughter. The creak of leather and clanking sounds of metal could be heard above the din; the tavern was simply furnished: a roaring fire burned in a hearth large enough to roast a whole cow, roughly hewn plank tables and benches, mugs and steins of carven wood or pewter. Moreover, judging by the food, it was simple as well. Loaves of coarse bread, both dark and light, were served on shallow, wood platters, with a thick slice of cheese, the spoons nothing like the Watcher was accustomed to seeing - except in the movies.

"Come on Joe. Let's take a load off." Spying a long table with space, Methos confidently led the way.

"You don't have to tell me twice. Been a while since I have been on a hump this long, and since you ran out o' gas runnin' from Morgan Walker - remember that, Adam?"

"I remember." Methos said as he studied the other patrons. The Quickening from that son-of-a-bitch was most satisfying.

At long last, after 195 years, Methos had exacted revenge for his sweet Charlotte, the beautiful slave whom he loved from afar and shared one brief, blissful night . . . before she was murdered. Charlotte paid for their passion with her life. Her owner, the cruel slave master, Morgan Walker - another Immortal- returned early from an errand and literally almost caught the Ancient One with his pants down. What Walker found instead was his bed mussed and his slave fresh from the arms of another. Methos' past indiscretion had caused her to pay dearly. It was the Ancient's every intention that his most recent 'indiscretion' be set right and not cost his friend a loved one as well. Methos' eyes settled on the dark figure in the corner; there sat a Man keenly observing them with dark, intense eyes. The Ancient One discretely studied him as well, his gut telling him they were close to their goal.

"Hey MacLeod, why don't you get us a round?" the Eldest suggested.

"Yeah, sounds like a good idea." the Highlander said, his dark gaze sweeping the room.

"Gregory was right, Mac." Joe commented.

"Oh?" the Highlander prompted.

"He said the people would be 'colorful'."

And they were. It was not filled to capacity with customers, but it was plenty busy; the clientele of this drinking establishment fully embraced spirit of the Festival. Sneezing, the Watcher held his handkerchief under his nose, and kept it there, hoping the cotton square would filter the smell of unwashed bodies. It did not work. The mingled odors of leather, horse, food and sweaty men fresh from their labors and their clothes stained with grease and dirt just added to the . . .

"Ambiance; this place reeks of it, doesn't it Joe." Methos commented, looking around.

"Yeah, it reeks all right. I'd call it body odor, though. Jeez, is there a rule against bathing?" the Watcher complained, breathing through his mouth.

"Ah, Joe - you're being so prissy. If you think this is bad, you should've seen the Bronze Age." the Eldest said, watching the Highlander make his way to the bar.

Although there was plenty of room available, the patrons on either side of the Immortal gave him wide berth, backing away uneasily whilst appraising the swarthy Scot. Perplexed, Duncan nodded in greeting to those brave enough to make eye contact; some hesitantly returned the salutation, while others left for the other side of the bar counter, crowding the other bar flies gathered at the far ends, who murmured in low voices and openly stared at the Highlander and his companions.

"Barkeep, three rounds of Scotch, please." Duncan called out.

Wiping a wooden cup with a rough, brown cloth, the barkeep tried to keep a brave front. The Stranger before him was unlike any other he had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon, but he felt reassured with the dark figure resting in a shadowy corner. The Ranger would intervene if necessary.

"We don't have round Scotchs here, sir." he replied carefully. The last time Strangers came to this peaceful village, they terrorized Bree and the surrounding countryside, disturbing the quiet and harmony; as a result, business at the Prancing Pony had declined sharply. After the War of the Ring, it was slowly recovering.

"What do you have?" Duncan asked; it was easier to play along with the characters.

Though it was refreshing to attend a Festival that was a stickler for the little details, the Highlander wondered why the stringent rules applied to the liquor as well. After the forest altercation, he was ready for a stiff drink. It was fortunate for the barkeep that his suspicious attitude did not bother the Highlander one bit.

"Beer, mead and wine." he replied. Affable by nature, the suds dealer saw that the Stranger was not only polite, but didn't seem to be trouble. Likewise, Duncan studied the man before him. Portly of build, the coarse hairs of his handlebar mustache joined the mutton chop sideburns. His brown hair held a hint of red that was thinning slightly in front.

"Two of those -" Duncan nodded to the pewter mugs of the men across from him.

"A pint?"

"And one of mead." the Highlander added.

"Right away, Mr. -?"

"MacLeod."

"Barliman Butterbur at your service. Can I be getting anything else for you, Mr. MacLeod?"

"Oi, Butterbur - we're dry over here!"

"Nob! See to them, please!" Barliman Butterbur called out. One of the Elves they saw entering the village caught Duncan's attention as he dropped the rag he was using to wipe a table to scurry off and do as instructed.

"The woolly footed slow-coach - he means well, bless him!" the barkeep said in an undertone.

"Why do you put a child to work in your pub?" The Highlander asked with grim disapproval.

"Child?" Barliman repeated, puzzled; he followed the Scotsman's gaze. "Nob?! The wooly pated ninny's no child - though he may as well be!" assured the Man before him meant no harm, Barliman chuckled.

"That Elf's not a child?" Duncan repeated, incredulous.

He hadn't see Nob's face clearly, had he been able to, the Highlander would not have seen the face of a child. Barliman looked at his unusual patron strangely, wondering if the man before him was a simpleton as well.

"Nob's no 'Elf', and he's certainly not a child. He's a 'Hobbit' - a 'Halfling', one of the Little Folk!" the barkeep said.

Barliman chuckled to himself again and turned away as another customer claimed his attention. The proprietor wished to speak with the Stranger again. The fellow seemed harmless enough, and the Butterbur was most eager to learn more about him and his companions. It would keep the village talking for quite a while - of that, he was certain. After all, the Prancing Pony didn't earn its reputation for being the center of news and gossip for nothing.

"What's there to eat today?" Duncan asked.

This outing to the village was certainly taking on a decidedly odd flavor. The Highlander was convinced the players embraced the spirit of the Festival too rabidly. It'd be a relief to get this trip over with so he could resume his search for Jordie. He planned to ask Gregory to allow him the use of his Stone again, certain it would make all the difference in his search.

"Well, we have smoked capon, baked chicken, fried goose, smoked eel, stewed fish . . . hmmm, we might have some salmon left - but I have to check, first - oh and the salted beef is quite good."

"Three orders of the chicken and beef . . . with the mead and beer, please." Duncan ordered.

"Ah, excellent choices, Mr. MacLeod. I'll have Nob bring it to your table when it's ready." the proprietor said as the Scotsman nodded in agreement.

"Somebody forgot their book." Duncan commented, nodding towards the large tome that rested on the counter. Resting atop it was a feather quill; beside it was a small cup filled with extra quills, on the other side was a pot of ink.

"'Tis a registry for our guests."

"Registry? Is this a hotel?" Duncan asked. Barliman gave the Immortal a quizzical look.

"'Hotel'? Nay, the Prancing Pony - 'tis an '_Inn_'." the Proprietor answered.

It was the Clansman's turn to give the Bree Man a strange look. Writing it off as a subtle hint to speak in Festival terms, the Highlander just smiled and pulled out his billfold. He placed a fifty Euro bill on the counter, momentarily distracted when a man suddenly appeared to his right. Clad in dark, dusty clothes, his dark head was uncovered, and he wore rough woven gloves with the tips cut off. Strapped to his back were weapons that no doubt were put to use time and again. He did not look at the Highlander, which gave the Immortal the chance to openly study him.

"Another pint," The man ordered in a low voice.

"Right away," Busying himself behind the counter, Butterbur pushed the requested beverage in front of the man and set the Highlander's order before him as well. Duncan gathered up the drinks and turned to make his way to the table where Joe and Methos waited.

"Will you be payin' for your purchase now Mr. MacLeod?" Butterbur asked.

"It's right there." Duncan called over his shoulder.

Barliman looked at the counter, seeing nothing but a colorful piece of parchment. With his pint in hand, the dark clad man turned to leave but hesitated as well. Barliman addressed the Immortal again.

"Shall I bill you later, Mr. MacLeod?" he asked again slowly; his eyes were still on the parchment; Barliman Butterbur was, after all, a businessman. He wondered if the Stranger did not understand the question - though it was a simple enough query. Surely, the Outlander understands the simple concept of payment up front for goods or services rendered.

_No matter,_ the Proprietor thought; he was willing to call upon the Ranger to set things right . . . if it came down to it. Relieved he had a reliable method for securing payment, Barliman wondered what to do with the parchment on the counter.

Deciding the colorful parchment was harmless, Barliman picked up the bill. Studying the unusual pictures on the bank note, Barliman did not know what to make of the strange symbols. Holding it up to the light, the Euro's security feature became a dark line. Holding the note to the candle, the Proprietor gaped with wonder at the hologram foil patch, watching with child like wonder as the ink colors shifted from a purplish color to olive green. Clearing his throat nervously, Barliman tried to look stern.

"'Tis . . . pretty no doubt, Mr. MacLeod, but that'll be -"

_What is wrong with these people?_ the Immortal wondered, turning back and address the proprietor. Surely, the drinks and food did not cost more than what he had already paid.

"Here - MacLeod, why don't you take these to Joe? I'm sure he could use it." Methos interjected, sidling up to the counter.

Duncan looked at the Watcher; their food had arrived and Joe was waiting rather impatiently. Seeing the Highlander look his way, the Watcher pretended to take an exaggerated drink from an invisible cup in his hand to signal his thirst, prompting the Scotsman to hurry. As the Highlander left, Methos addressed the rotund man behind the counter.

"I hope this will cover the costs of our food and drinks . . . and lodgings for the night." Methos pulled another gold coin from the leather pouch in his overcoat and placed it on the counter, pushing it towards the barkeep.

"'Twill be more than enough, sir!" Barliman's eyes lit up as he reached for the coin. It had been a while since customers had paid up front, and this Stranger had paid handsomely up front. Before his beefy hand could touch the coin, the gold disappeared beneath Methos' hand.

"We seek the Peredhel." Methos said in a firm, yet quiet voice. Barliman blanched slightly and Methos noted with interest how the barkeep blinked rapidly before his gaze flicked briefly to the black clad man standing beside the Immortal.

"Er, I - I -what did you say your name was Mr. -?"

"I didn't." the Immortal said with a tiny smile. "Please let us know when our rooms are ready." Methos requested; as he walked away, the Immortal allowed the hastily hidden item to fall from his sleeve.

"Yes sir," Barliman replied, exchanging glances with the Ranger.

Watching the Stranger return to his companions, the square on the floor caught the Dúnedain's eye. Stooping, the Man picked it up and almost dropped it again. Quickly and carefully, he tucked it into his worn tunic, hoping those he awaited would soon arrive. He did not glance at the Innkeeper again as he returned to his corner table. Waiting impatiently in the shadowed corner for the Lords to arrive, Breiric continued to observe the Strangers. The quality of their clothes he had never seen before and they smelled of a strange fragrance, similar yet unlike the perfumes the Elves were known to favor, not the stench of sweat and horse that he was accustomed to. Methos' approaching figure obscured the Highlander's view of the black clad man as the Immortal returned to his companions' table.

"Methos, what's really going on here?" the Highlander questioned his friend when the Eldest returned to the table and helped himself to his share of the food.

"Looks like we're eating, MacLeod." Methos replied innocently.

"You know what I mean." Duncan warned. He was not in the mood to play word games with the Eldest.

"Well?" the Highlander prompted the Elder.

Methos did not answer, his body stiff and alert. From their reactions, the Watcher knew Immortals were about to enter the room. The Highlander and his companion's gaze swung towards the door, watching the two hooded and cloaked figures silhouetted in the entry pause before stepping forward, paying no heed to the other patrons; the tall figures uncovered their heads as they went to join the dark figure seated in the shadows. Their dark hair was long, and hung on either side of their face. In the dim light, Duncan and Methos could see the unknown Immortals were pale skinned as well. They were also identical twins.

"Immortal twins?! That's new." Joe said, stealing furtive glances at the pair.

"What do you think, MacLeod? Romulans or Vulcans?" Methos said softly. He could not resist the opportunity to stir up a little . . . 'fun'.

"I think they must not like their Star Fleet uniforms." the Highlander replied.

This was proving to be quite . . . interesting, for the recent arrivals' ears were pointed. The Highlander swore the two men who entered were on the wrong side of the great oceanic pond, for the annual International Comic Convention, known for attracting participants who paid painstaking attention to detail to their costumes, was held in San Diego, California, and not in Europe. Unless said men were masquerading as something else.

"It can't be. . . " the Highlander murmured.

"What can't be?" Methos prompted, turning his gaze back at his companions.

"Well, that little guy who brought our food is a 'Hobbit', not an Elf. Those Men over there cannot be Elves. Everybody knows Elves don't exist" the Highlander said.

"Same could be said for us, MacLeod - and little green men. The gods that made you and me, made _them_ a little different – yes?" Methos said with a grin on his face.

The Highlander gave the Elder Immortal an impatient look before turning his attention back to his meal. The Watcher followed suit, dismissing the subjects of their conversation as simply hard-core Festival participants in amazingly detailed costume. When the door swung open to admit the Elven Lords, the Ranger could not help but feel relief. They would know what to do. The Dúnedain's face was set in a grim line; making a straight line for the Man, the twin Lords and Ranger briefly exchanged greetings.

"My Lords, I have most distressing news." Breiric said.

"Mani naa ta (what is it)?" Elladan asked.

Beside him, he felt his brother stiffen in anticipation. From his tunic, the Ranger carefully withdrew the glossy, colorful square of parchment and laid it on the table between them. The Elves drew back, their grey eyes widened in horror as they gazed down at the familiar face; their eyes riveted on the woman's face - and not just any woman! Frozen in astonishingly exact detail on the shiny square of parchment, was the Lady Jordan.

"Manke tanya tuula (where did that come from)?"

"Mani naa tanya nat' (what is that thing)?"

With an expression known to none but themselves, Elladan and Elrohir shot each other an impatient look, for they had both spoken at the same time, as twins were known to do. The Ranger's grey eyes flicked past his companions, nodding to the trio seated across the room.

"The Old Man must be their wizard - the other two defer to him. The Dark One is called 'MacLeod', he must be their servant. I am unsure what purpose the Other One serves." Breiric said quietly.

The Elves did not bother looking; they immediately noticed the Strangers upon their entrance; their keen ears heard the scraping of the wooden benches and the footsteps of those the Ranger referred to, preparing to leave the establishment. Leaning forward, the Elves laid out their plan . . .

"We will capture their wizard."

#

"That was the finest beer I've ever tasted. Ever." Methos commented. And it was - the quality was unsurpassed and he'd drank enough in many lifetimes to know.

_Too bad we will not be staying long enough to enjoy more. the _Immortal thought ruefully to himself.

Watcher and Immortals took a quick look around the village, trying hard to not mind the villagers who stared and crossed the road when their paths would bring them in direct contact. Duncan was ready to leave.

"Let's go. I have had enough of this place. We have not only had the beer, but the food as well. We can tell Gregory we went beyond the call of duty," the younger Immortal said. The Eldest snorted but kept his comments to himself. Methos remained silent as he followed his companions.

"I'm with you Mac," the Watcher agreed.

As if Parisians were not bad enough, the Watcher was convinced the village was filled with idiots. Adding insult to injury, the trio were beyond their mobile phone's coverage; no service, no roaming capability, and no matter where they went, there was no public phone available. Their inquiries as to the location of one was met with dumbfounded looks.

"They're still here." the Highlander commented. The Buzz alerted them to the twins' presence.

"Well, since they're not hunting either of you, I say let's go. I'll have to start new files and see about getting a Watcher on them as well." Joe said. It was highly unusual to find Immortal twins, or at least ones who go through great pains to look like mirror images of each other.

"Where you goin' Methos?" the Highlander asked when he went in a different direction - to the Prancing Pony.

"I'm not about to walk back; I thought we'd borrow the horses a little longer then turn them loose when we're done." the Old Guy answered, leading the younger Immortal and Watcher towards the stables. Bob, the other 'Hobbit' was nowhere to be seen.

"Didn't you do valet stabling, Methos?" the Highlander inquired.

"Well, he appears to be out to lunch at the moment." the Ancient One answered. "Looks like we'll have to do it the old-fashioned way, eh, MacLeod?" Methos said.

"I'll wait out here, guys." Joe said.

"Come inside Joe - there's bales of hay stacked up. You can have a seat while we get the horses ready. It may be a while 'because we might have to look for the tack." Methos suggested.

The Watcher thought for a second before deciding the Immortal was right. He was not looking forward to riding the horse trio entered the stables; spying their horses at the far end of the stable Duncan went to retrieve his saddle. Methos turned back in time to see the black clad man come up behind the Watcher with a short sword drawn. The simultaneous gunshot and the attacker's cry made Duncan spin around.

"Get your hands off me! What the hell you doin'!?" From seemingly out of nowhere, one of the unknown Immortals appeared and held the Watcher immobilized from behind, a curved knife was held to Joe's throat. Duncan's eyes narrowed.

"Let him go." the Highlander commanded in a quiet voice.

"You didn't have to shoot him." Duncan said to the Ancient One in an undertone.

"That's beside the point now, isn't it? He'll be fine." Methos said.

From the shadows of the stables, the Immortals saw the other twin had suddenly and noiselessly appeared as well and was helping the black-clad man hobble off. Sheltered behind a stall, the man drew his bow and fitted an arrow to it, aiming for the Ancient One. The horses were uneasy, their hooves stamping and their high-pitched whinnies signaled their nervousness.

"Looks like Robin Hood's got you in his sights, Adam. Don't think he liked getting shot, either." the Highlander commented; Methos gave the Scot a wry grin.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. You know this is against the Rules. Are you here for me?" the Highlander asked, reaching for his Katana. There was a chance the Immortals could not know both he and Methos were Immortal, and he intended for it to stay that way . . . if he could just keep them occupied.

"Stay your hand!" the tall One commanded. Duncan froze and held his hands up.

"We are here for the wizard."

"Wha-? What wizard? You crazy son-of-a-bitch, lemme go!" Joe struggled against his captor, but it was futile, for his strong grip soon turned painful. The Watcher sagged in his arms, the unknown Immortal easily continued to hold him upright.

"Dina (be silent)!"

"Huh?" Joe asked, wondering who 'Dina' was. Elrohir paused, wondering what manner of wizard he held captive if he could not understand Elvish.

"Silence! Else I cut your foul tongue from your head. You'll not work your foul magic in our presence." The Elf hissed.

"Let him go." Duncan repeated.

"Nay, not till he reverses his spell."

"Spell? What spell?" Joe asked.

"Silence!" Elrohir roared, pressing his blade against Joe's neck, the sharp blade cut his skin. Immediately, Joe fell silent. Duncan's lips thinned as he saw the thin red line appear on his friend's neck. This . . . 'farce' of a situation was going too far, and he was getting tired of it.

"If you don't let him go, I'm going to contact my lawyer and sue your ass off. Then I'll shut down this place _and_ I'll take those stupid ears of yours as well." Duncan threatened. The Highlander and the Watcher's assailant stared at each other, each just as angry as the other.

"Somehow I don't think he cares, MacLeod." Methos commented, shrugging at the younger Immortal's glare. Methos had remained silent during the exchange, letting the Highlander handle the situation. Duncan tried a different approach. It was clear this actor was playing his role to the hilt; perhaps humoring him a little longer would not hurt as he tried to edge closer.

"Look, Joe's a lot of things, but he's definitely not a wizard -" the Highlander began, ignoring his friend's glare ". . . and we don't know what you're talking about." The Highlander finished.

"You have enchanted and trapped the Lady with your foul devilry. Release her at once!" Elrohir said into the Watcher's ear.

"What are you talking about?" Duncan asked, studying the situation. He had to get Joe away from the crazed man without getting him killed.

"That!" Elrohir spat in a deadly tone as he turned the Watcher to face his brother. Cradled carefully in his twin's hand was Jordan's picture.

"Hey, it's -!" the bite of the Elf's blade silenced him once more.

"Do you know what that is?" Duncan asked

"Aye, 'tis devilry. As we live and breathe, your wizard will not live to see the sun set if he does not release her from his dread sway. Undo your spell!" Elrohir commanded. Before matters could spiral out of control, Methos stepped in.

"Lye en ten i' Peredhil (We look for the Half Elf)." the Ancient One said. Elrohir's grey gaze swung towards the Eldest, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Mankoi (why)?" Elladan asked; though spoken haltingly, as if unfamiliar with the words, the Stranger had spoken in the Elvish tongue. Methos turned towards the other Elf and studied him. Instinctively the Ancient One knew this one would see reason.

"Because once we find the Peredhil, we will find who we seek. What you hold in your hand is called a 'picture'. A representation of a person - an exact likeness. Moreover, the person in the picture is named Jordan Waters. She is not trapped, nor is there any wizardry or devilry involved. We are her friends. He -" Methos nodded towards the Highlander "- is her . . . kin."

Elrohir hesitated. The Elf was no fool; despite the silent one's relaxed manner and words, he had drawn no sword or bow. Yet the dark metallic object he held somehow managed to injure the Dunédain from a distance.

The more thoughtful of the two, Elladan could see there was truth in the stranger's words. There were similarities between them and the Lady Jordan that could not be ignored - such as their long coats and the familiar way that they spoke of the Lady Jordan.

"We've come to take her home." Methos added.


	25. Reunion

Stopping by Jordan's quarters to retrieve a dressing robe, the lovers quickly made their way thru the halls towards their destination. Jordan did not think it strange they encountered nary a soul. Legolas, on the other hand, knew better. When the Wood Elf closed the doors to the bathing room, Ceallach appeared from an adjacent hallway, silently tending her duties as she kept the bathing room doors within sight. In fact, one could almost say she was guarding the entrance. Inside the washroom, the Immortal and the Elf faced each other. Legolas rode virtually non-stop to return to Jordan; now they were together, and he meant to claim his prize and savor their time alone. Over his lover's shoulder, the Wood Elf's gaze swept the room. Legolas smiled inwardly as he noted the piles of fluffy cushions and towels placed within reach.

_You will be rewarded, Ceallach._ The Prince thought to himself as his sharp ears detected her movements in the hall.

The she-Elf's aid in the courting of the Wood Elf's chosen was most appreciated - especially when Legolas heard the muted tones of laughter and conversation approaching. Before the group of she-Elves could even approach the doors, they were met by the most determined she-servant, who regretfully informed the Elven maidens the common room was unavailable; the bewildered she-Elves were unaware of the reason why it was so, and the servant was not about to tell them, either. Instead, Ceallach quickly suggested another toilet room featuring an equally delightful steam room available for their use. Though hard pressed to produce a plausible reason, the resourceful she-Elf managed to discretely and diplomatically turn away the cluster of disappointed maidens from entering, thereby ensuring the Mirkwood Prince and his consort would be undisturbed. The puzzled she-Elves murmured amongst themselves as they moved along. Inside, Jordan was blissfully unaware of the happenings beyond the room, and well her surroundings, for her attention was focused solely on the magnificent Elf before her. Since Legolas' unexpected return, the sight of her lover both jarred and thrilled the woman; Jordan was overcome with a myriad of emotions that left her both giddy and flustered.

Legolas reached for his lover; without hesitation, Jordan went to him. Once her tunic was open and the gentle curve of her bosom revealed, the Elf dipped his head down to kiss her sweetly curved mounds, teasing her nipples to attention with his tongue. Jordan sighed and buried her left hand in the Elf's silky hair. Closing her eyes, she sighed as she concentrated on the sensations he evoked; before she knew it, Legolas had expertly divested the Immortal of her clothes and laid them on the nearby stone bench. Jordan felt the blood rush to her face, staining her cheeks pink. Despite their established intimacy, the Immortal felt both embarrassed and excited by her nakedness; eager to see Legolas naked as well, Jordan's removal of the Elf's clothes was slower in comparison. When the Immortal reached his breeches, the Elf watched Jordan's reaction to the burgeoning erection he had been fighting all day, especially when he came upon her in the storeroom. The Immortal raised an interested eyebrow at its straining readiness. 

"It has been this way since we parted, Melamin," Legolas murmured.

"Does it hurt?" she asked softly, teasingly.

"You do not know what I suffer." He replied.

"Can I relieve your suffering . . .?" Jordan queried with a tiny smile.

"Aye . . ." Legolas said thickly, watching her sink to her knees.

Jordan slowly undid the ties of his breeches, and carefully eased the soft leather down his narrow hips and past his long, muscular thighs. Legolas' erection sprang free; with a smile on her face, the Immortal lightly stroked the length of his elfhood, before gently cupping the sensitive sac beneath. The Mirkwood Elf groaned as his lover placed tiny kisses all along his thighs, and hips; with considerable effort, Legolas kept his breathing measured and even. Lightly, Jordan's hands roamed over Legolas' thighs before kneading and stroking his taut buttocks, her lips mere inches away from his swollen member; Legolas' long fingers buried themselves in the Immortal's ebony hair as he closed his eyes in anticipation . . .

"Legolas, will you help me with your boots?"

The Elf opened his eyes to see Jordan on her knees looking up at him, waiting for him to lift a booted foot. With a growl of frustration, he gently grasped his lover by the shoulders and hauled her to her feet.

"Minx!" Legolas exclaimed huskily.

On his face was an expression that was part amusement and part frustration. Jordan continued to surprise him in little ways that often caused him to pause and mentally re-group. This woman certainly kept him guessing, and Legolas would not have it any other way.

"What?" Jordan asked innocently.

The Elf would almost believe her to be sincere, had not the smile Jordan struggled to contain revealed itself; he could think of a better use for her lovely mouth – and given his present state, laughter was definitely not one of them - at least for the moment.

"Enjoy your mirth, Melamin . . .," the Elf said cryptically

With practiced ease, the Wood Elf kicked off his boots.

_We shall see if you still laugh when I am done with you_. he thought to himself. 

Taking Jordan in his arms, Legolas delighted in the feel of her bare skin next to his. With an impish grin on her face, the Immortal took the Elf's hands in her own and led him into the pool. The warm water enveloped the Immortal; the feel of it was almost as seductive as the Elf's slow kiss. When the water reached her chest, Jordan wrapped her legs around Legolas' waist as he waded towards the deep center of the pool. The Crown Prince came to a stop under the statue of the she-Elf with the urn; with Jordan's forehead tucked in the curve of the Elf's neck, Legolas held her under the fountain long enough to wet her hair, completely rinsing away all traces of the Lembas flour.

"Now I can see you, Melamin." Legolas teasingly said as Jordan blinked away the drops of water from her eyelashes.

"Now you don't . . .!" Jordan whispered with a mischievous grin.

Taking a deep breath, Jordan clasped Legolas shoulders and threw all her weight back. The move caught the Elf by surprise; Jordan's sudden and unexpected weight shift pulled Legolas off balance, and the Mirkwood Prince fell face forward into the water. Submerged, the Elf's long, golden hair swirled about his head, obscuring his view and forcing him to release his lover. Jordan took advantage of the Elf's momentary discomposure by swimming away. Feeling smug, Jordan's eyes widened when she felt Legolas' hand encircle her ankle before he effortlessly pulled her back thru the water. Before she knew it, Jordan was back in his arms, held tightly against his chest.

"You will rue that." Legolas promised.

The Elf managed to look both menacing and dignified despite the wet hair plastered to his beautiful face. Unable to help herself, Jordan burst out laughing as Legolas released her and ducked under the water. The Immortal's laughter trailed off when he failed to surface. Jordan reached under the water, feeling for the Elf. There was nothing. She was not alarmed, for her lover had to come up for air sometime. Jordan was starting to feel uneasy when he still had not surfaced.

Looking around as she treads the water, the Immortal was about to dive under and search for the Elf when she thought better of it. Looking uneasily about, Jordan watched the surface of the water, looking for the telltale trail of bubbles. There was none.

"Legolas?" Jordan called.

Nothing – save the burble of the water as it cascaded from the stone urn. The steam rising from the water only increased the eerie isolation Jordan found herself in.

"Legolas! This isn't funny anymore!" the Immortal called again.

Heart hammering in her chest, the woman ducked beneath the water; Jordan could not see the Elf - no matter how quickly, or what direction she turned. Legolas was simply gone. The only logical conclusion, Jordan decided, was that her Elven lover had climbed out of the water as she went under in search of him. The Immortal broke the surface and blinked the water from her eyes. Jordan's heart rate continued to rise as she turned about in the water. The rippling water seemed darker, as if the very light had fled with the Wood Elf; the plants along the wall further shadowed the section of the pool she was in. Looking around, Jordan knew the Elf must yet be with her, for his clothes still lay next to hers. Puzzled, it could only mean Legolas was still under the water . . . somewhere. He had to be. Thoroughly mystified, the woman decided it was most prudent to beat a hasty retreat to the shallow end of the pool - at least until she could figure out this most interesting situation. Jordan began to swim back towards safety; she was halfway there when she suddenly felt hands cup and gently squeeze her breasts, and then it was gone. Startled, Jordan screamed, at least until her mouth filled with water. Sputtering indignantly, the woman reached under the water in all directions, hoping to catch a hank of his golden hair, a hand – anything. She found nothing.

"Two can play that game, my Prince." The Immortal murmured, as soon as she got over her initial fright.

_You can't be far._ Jordan thought as she continued her search. She was unsuccessful. Then she felt the quick squeeze on her buttocks. Jordan yelped in surprise and flailed in the water.

"Hey!" she exclaimed.

The woman reached under the surface, searching once more for something to grab and came up with nothing. Jordan ducked her head under water; peering in all directions, she saw nothing.

_Impossible . . . ! _ She exclaimed silently.

Legolas was not there. Slicking her hair back, Jordan decided to retreat while she could, and started again for the pool's edge. The Immortal almost screamed when she felt Legolas' hands caress her belly before squeezing her between her legs. As quick as she could, Jordan grabbed underwater, attempting to seize any part of the Elf. Her questing hands brushed against something, and then it was gone.

Miffed, Jordan continued on her way; her feet almost touched the bottom of the pool when a huge spray of water showered her just before the Immortal was suddenly swept up into Legolas' arms. Jordan clung to his neck.

"Looking for me, Melamin?" he asked innocently.

"No." Jordan replied tartly.

Though her words said otherwise, Legolas noticed the woman was content to remain in his arms. It was the Elf's turn to laugh; the sound of his mirth was as golden and beautiful to the Immortal's ears as the Elf himself. It was also a sound Jordan wanted to drown in. Nuzzling his pointed ear with the tip of her nose, the Elf shivered slightly in response and squeezed Jordan's derriere, eliciting a laugh from her. The Immortal placed a kiss on Legolas' cheek and rested her wet head in the crook of his shoulder, her fingers busy undoing his warrior's braids as he made his way back to the shallow part of the pool and deposited her on a low step. The woman's playful mood turned pensive. The Elf smiled again, marveling at his mortal lover's quick change of mood.

"Why are you silent, Melamin?" he asked.

"I still can't believe you're here." Jordan murmured as she looked at him.

"I mean, I'm glad you are – but is everything all right back home?" she asked earnestly. Legolas chuckled with amusement at the human tendency to worry.

"Do not fret; all is well, Melamin." He answered.

Behind her, the Elf gathered the toiletries he wished to use. Passing over the scented bars, Legolas instead scooped a handful of perfumed soft soap from a beautiful silver bowl. Sitting behind the woman, the Elf dipped the matching urn into the pool and filled it with warm water before setting on the ledge beside her. Legolas dolloped a handful of the soap onto Jordan's hair and carefully worked it into lather as the Immortal took the urn and poured the water out, filled it and poured it again, repeating the familiar and comforting ritual. It brought back pleasant memories of her early childhood when her mother would bathe her before bed.

"And your father? How is he?" Jordan asked.

Legolas took the filled urn from the Immortal and set it on the ledge before he buried his hands in her sudsy hair. With a sigh, Jordan closed her eyes as the Mirkwood Elf's long fingers massaged her scalp. The Immortal had not had a scalp massage since Mt. Fuji, and that was only after she had sharpened all the knives to Duncan's satisfaction. With the strength of Legolas' long legs on either side of her, Jordan leaned back against the Wood Elf and absently ran her hands over his thighs, feeling its hard smoothness; as her fingers traced the contours of the Elf's defined muscles, Jordan delighted in the strength and tensile beauty of her lover's exquisite musculature.

"You could have seen for yourself." Legolas answered mildly before rinsing her locks free of the scented lather.

"I wish I had." Jordan said as she slicked her hair away from her face. She did not see the Elf's pleased expression

"There is yet time." Legolas ventured.

"Maybe after we see this Mithrandir." Jordan replied.

She didn't say more as Legolas began to rub the scented cleanser onto her back, then the ripe, soft swell of her breasts. The soap made Jordan's skin slippery, and the Wood Elf loved the different sensation as his hands slid slowly, sensuously over her.

"Maybe." Legolas agreed.

Jordan briefly wondered more about who this Mithrandir is, and what he could possibly do for her. She did want answers, but . . .

_Somehow it doesn't matter as much anymore._ The woman decided languidly before giving herself over to the thrill the Mirkwood Elf's skilled hands evoked.

Legolas' hand wandered near his lover's waist and then made their way lower; his fingers skimmed her mound before stroking her inner thighs. Gently, the Elf spread Jordan's legs as far as they'd go; his fingers dipped into her and found what he sought. His lover's hips arched upwards to meet his hand; the Elf began to stroke her until a low moan escaped from his lover's mouth; Jordan's head fell to one side, the offer was not lost to the Elf, for he licked and nipped at the curve of her neck, smiling to himself as he set his lover adrift on a sea of bliss.

"Mmmmm . . .! Jordan purred.

Unable to help herself, Jordan groaned as Legolas' skilled fingers massaged the sensitive, hidden pearl. Bombarding her with the sensual stimuli, the Elf was relentless in his erotic onslaught, for his other hand was busy fondling and gently squeezing, taking his time as he reacquainted himself with his lover's body; had Legolas been able to see, the Immortal's face was a study in rapture, especially when her gasps became low, throaty moans. Jordan's nails dug into the Wood Elf's thighs, bracing herself, her hips moving in time with his fingers. Behind her, the Mirkwood Prince's erection pressed into Jordan's lower back. With one hand tangled in her wet hair, Legolas used the water to his advantage, and angled his floating lover so he could kiss her, the ministration of his hand was uninterrupted as the Mirkwood Prince brought his lover closer to her climax. Jordan was his now, ecstatic to be under his spell.

The Crown Prince reached under the Immortal and lifted her out of the pool, and set the dripping woman on the fluffy piles of towels and cushions. Jordan felt no chill — only the burning desire for Legolas' touch. His mouth met hers and in that instant, exerted an unspoken command for the Immortal to lie back, be still, and focus on him; the Elf braced himself on his forearms as he settled himself between her legs. Highly aroused and slightly puzzled why Legolas stopped, Jordan smiled uncertainly, wondering what the Elf was thinking. He was looking down at her with an intense expression that flustered her; so intense, that his impossibly blue gaze seemed to be looking thru her. The Prince was struck again by Jordan's youthful shyness, for his lover's hands had fluttered up to cup her breasts, shielding the swollen, sensitized mounds from his view. Legolas gazed thoughtfully at the face that, in a remarkably short span of time, had become both so dear and precious to him. Despite the reasons to rejoice in the hope of a better future, a shadow fell across the Elf's heart. His friendship with the mortals Aragorn and Gimli had profoundly changed him - binding him to Middle-Earth in such a way that the Golden Elf was able to resist the call of the Sea; for how long he did not know. Legolas was determined to see his mortal friend finish his triumphant reign, to witness Elessar pass the mantle of authority to his heirs, before finally resting in glory with his forebears before him. The two friends Legolas cared for most would surely be stolen from him, and he was powerless to stop time itself; Dwarves, like most creatures of Middle-Earth, were long lived. King Elessar, descended from the Dúnedain and blessed with remarkable longevity, would eventually succumb to the Gift of Men. Now there was Jordan . . . despite the fact that he knew virtually nothing about her, the Elf was sure what he felt for her.

The feelings he initially struggled against for this Daughter of Man were illogical and contrary to what Legolas had hoped for himself in the future, yet he could no longer deny his heart. The brief time Legolas spent in Mirkwood among his kin, and his solitary ride to and from his beloved forest home had been all that the Elf needed to confirm what he felt. It was a startling revelation, and the struggle was no less fierce than the battle to free Middle-earth from the Darkness. After searching for the answer among the stars, and most importantly – his heart, Legolas knew what he felt to be true. He touched Jordan's cheek softly, tracing the contours of her face with his fingertips.

"Melin le (I love you), Jordan." He said quietly. Legolas looked down at his lover, searching the green eyes that haunted his reveries since the day they met.

"I missed you, too, Legolas." The Immortal replied. Raising a dark blonde brow in consternation, the Elf smiled at that, but did not bother to correct Jordan as he ran his hands along the damp expanse of her waist.

"You have neglected your Elvish in so short a time, Melamin." Legolas chided her gently.

"Isn't that what you said?" Jordan asked, confused.

Unfortunately, the Immortal had been neglecting her Elvish; lately, Jordan had been confusing greetings with directions and amounts. Though linguistics was not a particular strength of hers, Jordan could almost swear Latin bore a faint resemblance to Elvish. At least it sounded like it sometimes.

_Good thing it did not happen in the kitchens_. The Immortal thought smugly to herself.

Jordan had counted her stint in the bakery with the Apprentices as time well spent. What she did not know was that it was an opinion she alone shared.

"It will suffice, Melamin." The Mirkwood Elf replied.

_For now._ Legolas thought to himself, making a mental note to help Jordan brush up on her Elvish.

The time for talking was past, for Legolas intended to love his chosen one; the Elf reclaimed the woman's mouth with his and kissed her silent when Jordan was about to speak, and then again until she finally got the hint. Legolas' eyes never left Jordan's as he grasped her wrists gently and pulled them away from her chest. Kissing her palms, he placed her hands at her side. The Immortal did not move; Jordan watched as her lover's fair head lowered, and closed her eyes when Legolas drew his lips to the breast he now cupped in one hand. Jordan's hands were buried in the Elf's golden hair, massaging his scalp. As the Wood Elf slowly circled his tongue around his lover's aureole, her nipple rose to meet him. Legolas suckled it luxuriously, letting his lips and tongue linger as if they enjoyed the finest confection ever created; his other hand drifted downward to stroke her thighs; coaxing them apart, his long fingers cupped her mound and pressed against it, inserting one finger, then another one, feeling her feminine heat as the warm walls clenched around his fingers; hooking his fingers up, he suddenly exerted pressure on her nerve bud, squeezing her swollen nub between his fingers as he pumped his fingers in and out caused Jordan's hips to rock, her back arch with the stab of pleasure. His lover's pleasure made Legolas' member harder, if that was possible. Drawing the Elf's head up, Jordan kissed him.

"Mmmmm," She purred against his lips.

"Does it please you, Melamin?" Legolas inquired, watching her flushed cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes.

"Maybe." Jordan answered; her lips curved upwards, and a teasing gleam was in her eyes as she tried to act nonchalant.

Jordan pouted when Legolas removed his hand cradled her head in his hands. The Elf covered every inch of her face with tender kisses. Holding the Mirkwood Prince close to her, the Immortal lightly raked her nails down either side of his spine, and then began to knead the taut muscles of Legolas' back as he nuzzled her neck, nipping and licking the delicate flesh of her throat. Arching her head back, Jordan's breathing quickened as her lover began to move against her, grinding his hip against her folds in a slow, circular rhythm, each movement parting her womanly folds just a little more, to rub and press sinfully against her little center of pleasure.

Though he hungered for her, Legolas waited until his lover began to rock her hips against his; shifting restlessly, the Immortal grasped the Elf's hips, stilling his movements as she hooked her ankles behind his thighs and pulled him closer, parting her thighs wider to receive him. Tangling her hand in his golden hair, Jordan pulled his head down, until their foreheads touched. Looking deep into his blue eyes, the woman bit her bottom lip as she boldly reached for his Elfhood, guiding the bulbous tip of his engorged shaft where she wanted it. Jordan arched up to meet the Elf when he claimed her, sliding into the Immortal in one swift motion. The sensation was exquisite - so tightly did he fit within her, that Jordan was convinced there was nothing else quite like being loved by Legolas. Her lover's sizeable girth pulsed and throbbed within the Immortal, stretching her nether walls and filling her until she could no longer think. Legolas repeated Jordan's name as he thrust his hardness into her softness, quietly and under his breath, as if her name and his breathing were one and the same.

The Wood Elf continued to pump his elfhood into the woman, burying his shaft deeper within her slick, hot walls, never once hesitating, even as Jordan shook and trembled beneath him – close, she was so close . . .! When his lover did reach the crest of pleasure, Jordan felt caught up in the lightning storm of a Quickening. The pleasure so intense, Jordan's conscience barely registered that Legolas had not reached that zenith with her. What she did feel was his hand reaching between them; the woman quivered as Legolas stroked her highly sensitized kernel, fanning the recently stoked embers of her desire for him to burning again, until the Immortal once more called out his name, her legs wrapping tighter around his sculpted torso. Legolas steadily moved within her, the excitement building again; he stroked her love nub relentlessly, not giving in to his own pleasure until his lover finally lay exhausted beneath him, too tired to even lift her head. Dimly, the Immortal heard Legolas call out her name, in time to enjoy the feel and heat of his thick essence spurting deep within her. The wild thudding of Legolas' heartbeat echoed hers. The Wood Elf caught himself, not wanting to drop his full weight on her, yet Jordan mustered the strength to pull him close, unwilling to let him go. They lay there for several moments before Legolas rolled onto his side and pulled his happily satiated lover with him, enfolding her his arms.

#

_Amin nowe ron n'kelaya (I thought they would never leave)!_ The she-Elf snorted to herself when the lovers finally

emerged from the bathing room.

It was increasingly difficult turning away other bathers who desired the room's use without revealing why, and the maiden was glad to be relieved of the task. Now that the room was vacated, the servant was finally free to see to her other duties. Ceallach bowed to the Prince and nodded in greeting to the woman at his side. Judging from the smile on Lady Jordan's face, the she-Elf knew that her efforts to afford them privacy were worth it – at least for the mortal woman. As they walked further down the halls, the Elven maiden noted with a faint twinge of envy, how the Lady Jordan had a slight wobble in her walk, and despite the pairs' leisurely pace, the woman's steps were carefully measured. Impressed, Ceallach's gaze lingered on the Golden Elf's retreating form, when Maranwë, another servant, happened upon her.

"Ceallach, is that not the Mirkwood Prince?" the fair-haired she-Elf whispered, curious.

"Aye." Ceallach answered softly, her eyes not leaving the couple.

"There is word he returned early. Fortunate woman," Sighed Maranwë as the Wood Elf reached out and held Jordan's hand in his.

"The quest that claimed the Wood Elf's attention is over and now that the danger's past, all that . . . passion and virility is wasted on a Woman!" the Elven servant lamented.

Watching the graceful steps of the Mirkwood Elf, to the servant's mind, the Woman's steps were heavy and clumsy in comparison. Ceallach was thinking the very same thing, though she had better sense than to speak her thoughts. Maranwë, on the other hand, continued her prattling.

"No matter, Ceallach; the Prince will be free once more whence he tires of the Mortal. Her beauty will fade and the deep night shade of her hair will lighten to ash . . . she will succumb to the Gift of Men, then Lord Legolas' attentions will turn elsewhere-"

"Hold your tongue, Maranwë – lest it land you in the scullery!" Ceallach cut her friend off before she could say more.

"The Prince's choice of consort is not for us to decide." She reminded her friend gently.

"You know I speak the truth." Maranwë sniffed with disdain in reply, watching the couple disappear around a corner. No doubt, they were headed back towards the Mortal's quarters.

"Still, 'tis none of our concern," Ceallach said firmly. "Come, help me set the bathing room to rights," she bade the other she-Elf.

Giving her friend a firm look, Ceallach grasped the fair-haired maiden's arm and pulled her along. Flinging the doors open, the she-Elves surveyed the room.

Not a single towel or cushion Ceallach had laid out was dry; the drying cloths, though wrung out and neatly folded, were wet, and the cushions were soaked thru. Puddles of water pooled around their feet from the dripping corners. In addition, the fragrant, hand milled soft soap was gone.

"What transpired here?" Maranwë asked, picking up a sodden cushion.

The gorgeous, silken fabric was ruined. Ceallach merely smiled and kept silent, remaining – as always, the epitome of discretion.

#

Jordan sighed contentedly as she sipped from the goblet the Elf handed her, feeling renewed as the Cordial of Imladris' warmth spread throughout her body; the wondrous liquid made the Immortal feel she could go another round of sensual gymnastics with the Mirkwood Elf. Jordan swore her body tingled and hummed, and she couldn't stop smiling. Legolas congratulated himself on having the foresight to have a flagon of Miruvor ready as he regarded his lover with amusement. He observed, with smug satisfaction, the fact that Jordan's face glowed. If the Elf had been allowed his way, they would have dined in bed, but Jordan insisted they eat at the table, not wanting crumbs or food stains on the sheets. As they ate, Legolas was astonished with the amount of food his lover was able to put away in a single sitting. Fortunately, there was plenty of Lembas on hand should their victuals be depleted before the morning. After eating their fill, the Crown Prince told Jordan more of his return home - the underground palace of his father, and other interesting stories before the Immortals made love again. They repeated the cycle of rest, conversation and loving (though not necessarily in that order) until Jordan begged the Elf for 'Time Out', and collapsed onto her pillows with a drowsy smile on her face. Soon, she was fast asleep. Invigorated and nowhere near satiated, Legolas climbed out of bed, nude. Jordan rolled over into the warm spot where the Elf recently lay, and snuggled deeper into the pillows. The Elf looked down at his lover, studying her.

_. . . __No matter, Ceallach; the Prince will be free once more, whence he tires of the Mortal. Her beauty will fade and the deep night shade of her hair will lighten to ash . . . she will succumb to the Gift of Men, then Lord Legolas' attentions will turn elsewhere . . . _

_NO!_ Legolas thought fiercely to himself.

He reached into the armoire where he had earlier hidden the box. Yet, even as he vehemently denied it, the Elf recognized

truth in the servant's words as they whispered in the Prince's mind, mocking him.

_Is it worth it - to love a mortal? How will I truly feel when Jordan's hair loses its luster, when her eyes no longer shine with life, but become dull and rheumy? When her youthful, firm body becomes a wrinkled, ravaged shell, bowed with age? When time lines her face and she turns away in envy of my eternal youth and life – when she no longer recognizes me. . . Will I still love her?_ Legolas wondered. The shadows lengthened as the Elf contemplated the future.

"Yes." The Elf whispered to her sleeping form.

It was the person within he loved; the body was merely an attractive vessel housing Jordan's soul. Pushing the unpleasant thoughts from his mind, Legolas climbed back into his lover's bed and slid the box beneath her pillow. The Elf paused when he felt a hard, slender object. Carefully withdrawing it, Legolas held in his hands Jordan's katana. He studied the black lacquered scabbard critically. The baroque touches adorning the casing was unlike any he had ever seen; like the woman he had made love to, it was striking and alien. The Crown Prince was about to examine the blade when his attention was diverted; his lover whimpered in her sleep.

" . . . Duhnn Cann. . . . " Jordan breathed softly; her lower lip quivered, as if she were about to weep.

_Dung Can. That name again. The One she called for in the forest many moons ago. Who is this 'Dung Can'? _TheElf wondered.

What is he to her? Legolas knew he could not be her past lover. Is he a friend? There would be time for him to find out, and the Elf was determined to begin unraveling the mystery on the morrow. For now, Legolas wished Jordan to rest and gather her strength, for she would need it. Brushing his lips across her cheek, the Golden Elf kissed the rounded curve of his lover's ear and leaned close.

_Keep your secrets, for now, Melamin; I shall discover for myself what they are. _ Legolas thought to himself.

"Lanta kaima, Melamin." Legolas whispered and Jordan stilled once more.

It was late in the evening when Jordan awoke. Running her hands thru her raven hair, the woman winced as she encountered many snarls. The Elf, on the other hand, thought her tresses wonderfully tousled from their enthusiastic loving. Legolas' golden hair was, as usual, perfect. Reaching for her discarded robe, Jordan was about to don it, eager to get to her hairbrush.

"Leave it. Do not hide yourself from me, Melamin." The Elf commanded.

Sprawled in the middle of her bed was her Elven lover in all his naked glory. Jordan, however, was still adjusting to walking around nude in front of another person. But she would do it for Legolas. Brushing her hair in front of the fire, Jordan closed her eyes and smiled. Legolas was back, and she felt at peace. For once, the Game, the Rules, and work . . . nothing seemed to matter anymore. Except for one thing. The Immortal's happiness dimmed, for the only thing that would make the whole situation perfect would be for Duncan and Joe to meet Legolas. Jordan was certain the Highlander would like the Elf, for they certainly had many noble traits in common, and she was certain Gimli and Joe would get along famously. Not to mention Gimli and Duncan, for the Dwarf's accent alone was what the Immortal initially latched on to, its brogue so close to that of the Highlander's, that Jordan immediately felt comforted in this strange and wondrous land of make-believe come to life.

"Lembas for your thoughts, Melamin," Legolas' smooth voice came directly behind her.

Taking the brush from her hands, the Elf pulled it thru the Immortal's onyx hair once more before wrapping his strong arms around her; Jordan leaned back against the Elf's warm, hard body and smiled. Somehow, in that short amount of time, the Elf had swiftly and silently dressed. It was almost spooky. Staring into the dancing flames, Jordan thought about her reply.

"I was just thinking that I am happy." She finally said.

Legolas turned the woman around to face him. Looking into her eyes, a half smile graced his lips.

"Oh? Do I make you happy?" the Elf asked, catching Jordan's chin in his elegant fingers when she looked away.

_Why is it so hard to be honest with my feelings?_ Jordan wondered.

_Because you won't be here forever. _ She answered.

_You're here now. Isn't that what counts?_ The Immortal thought.

"Maybe," She cautiously allowed.

The Elf searched her eyes with his probing gaze, wondering why his lover did not speak the truth he saw within their green depths. In Mirkwood, surrounded by his beloved forest and his timeless kin, Legolas often thought about Jordan, his mortal woman. Tonight. Tonight they would see where her heart lay. Releasing her chin, he stepped back.

"I would show you something. Aphado nin(follow me)." Legolas said, holding his hand out to her.

"Where?" Jordan asked as the Elf folded her hand in his and pulled her close for a quick kiss.

"Lle nauva ere (you will see)." He said mysteriously; Legolas refused to say more as he handed Jordan her night shift and a cloak.

He watched, momentarily envious of the garment as the gossamer gown slid over her dark head and skimmed her body; watching her dress in profile, Jordan's shapely backside nicely balanced the swell of her bosom. The Elf's eyes narrowed thoughtfully when Jordan reached under her pillow for her sword. The expression was gone by the time the woman turned to face the Prince.

"I'm ready." She announced.

"You do not need that, Melamin." Legolas said, eyeing her Katana with mild amusement. Donning his own cloak, the Wood Elf shouldered a lumpy rucksack just outside the balcony doors. Often, Jordan's actions left the Elf genuinely puzzled. And intrigued.

"It's dark out there, Legolas. Besides . . . it's habit." Jordan replied. The Mirkwood Prince sighed. It was on the tip of the Elf's tongue to insist she leave her weapon behind, but Legolas did not wish to argue with her and ruin the mood.

Rivendell's beauty could not be hidden by the night; instead, the moon gave the Elven realm a mysterious allurement all its own, its silver light more than sufficient for the Elf to see his way. Jordan had not traveled this path before, and wondered where Legolas was taking her. She did know he was leading her opposite where her favorite glade lay. With her hand in his, over quaint footbridges, past natural fountains, sheltered arbors and thru shadowed paths, the Wood Elf silently tread with his lover in tow; his steps gliding over the darkened ground, leaving no trace of his passing; however, the Immortal's steps bruised the emerald grass, her slippers leaving tracks in the rich soil. The Elf led Jordan onward, occasionally looking to see how she fared, especially when failing to heed his words resulted in her stumbling over hidden tree roots and rocks.

_There'd better be a good reason for this. _The Immortal grumbled to herself when she stubbed her toe.

Jordan was fast becoming perturbed; this outing bore an uncanny resemblance to another moonlit stroll so long ago with another Immortal. She did not enjoy the stroll then, and she was not enjoying this particular stroll, either. Now, like then, Jordan was not exactly dressed for the occasion – at least to her liking, especially when the path led upwards. It was a while before their path leveled off again. The woman was ready to head back; she was about to insist upon it, lest they begin another upward ascent, when Legolas stopped and held aside some branches for her to see. He smiled at her suspicious glare, knowing it would not last long. He was right. The Immortal blinked and stared in wonder at the scene before her. Legolas watched Jordan's reaction; he much preferred the quiet deep of his forest home. However, there were hidden areas in Imladris, far from the beaten paths that took even his breath away. As for Jordan, the Immortal thought they were in her favorite glade. Except - nestled within the protective ring of trees, was a large, natural pool graced with cascading waterfalls, the clearing was filled with abundant, fragrant night blooms. Looking around, the Immortal did not protest when Legolas removed the cloak from her shoulders. The woman was surprised to discover despite wearing practically next to nothing, and their high elevation, it was not cold.

The Mirkwood Prince led Jordan to a grassy patch clear of night blooms. Legolas shrugged off his pack and chuckled when Jordan handed him her katana, shed her footwear and fairly ran towards the pool. The Elf laid his lover's sword behind the rucksack and spread a blanket and their cloaks on the ground before unpacking the contents from the pack. Removing his boots, Legolas placed them beside Jordan's slippers. He sat upon the blanket, reveling in the scent of the long, pristine grass. The Elf rested his elbows on his knees, his long, elegant fingers loosely clasped together as he watched his lover.

With a quick glance at the inky sky, Legolas briefly wondered again what muted warnings the celestial bodies were trying to convey; though the stars shone brightly overhead, their heavenly song faltered, rife with confusion and . . . pernicious forewarnings? Now, as he attempted in Mirkwood, the Prince searched for answers, but was unable to decipher the gibbered meaning when he to probed the stars further. Troubled, Legolas held his misgivings at bay and turned his attention back to Jordan. Standing at the water's edge, Jordan watched the moonlight reflect off the rippling surface, making the water shimmer like diamonds. Tentatively, the Immortal dipped a toe in. To her delight, the water was tepid.

"Impossible." Jordan murmured to herself.

Somehow, she was not surprised when Legolas spoke, and mentally reminded herself to watch what she said around him. No telling what his sharp hearing would pick up.

"What is, Melamin?" Legolas asked.

His words carried far in the still night air. In fact, despite the sound of the waterfall, Jordan believed they could speak in whispers and still be able to hear each other perfectly fine. She decided to test her theory.

"The water – it's almost warm! How can it be?" she whispered, looking at her lover.

"Thru the power of the Elves," The Mirkwood Prince whispered back with a smile and a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Legolas knew the Ring of Power surrounding Elrond's realm, though always in harmony with nature, served other purposes. . . one of which both he and Jordan were now benefiting. Feeling she can catch the moon in her hands, the Immortal raised her arms high overhead. Jordan laughed at the fanciful thought as she stretched sensuously and turned in a slow pirouette. Bathed in starlight, the full moon's silver beam outlined Jordan's body beneath her nightshift. The Elf enjoyed the sight before him; he could see the lines of her lush, compact body, her peaked nipples, and the curve of her buttocks – an enticing aphrodisiac in itself.

Slowly walking towards the Elf, Jordan gathered the hem of her gown and raised it to mid thigh, inviting her lover's touch. Looking down at the Elf, the Immortal released the material as Legolas reached up and touched her thighs. The sheer material fell over his forearms as he slid his hands upwards to grasp her waist as Jordan knelt. Resting her hands lightly on his knees, the woman kissed Legolas' lips before raising her arms, allowing the Elf to remove her shift. Ever careful, Legolas placed the delicate gown inside the rucksack. When he turned back toward the Immortal, Jordan's eyes rested on her lover's lips as she undid the clasps of his tunic. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she gently pushed him back until he was lying down. Kneeling on all fours between his legs, Jordan hovered above Legolas, naked, their bodies not quite touching. She studied the Elf beneath her. How beautiful he was in the moonlight, with his pale hair gleaming silver. And those eyes . . . ! He seemed to reflect the stars and moon, for his naked torso glowed softly – or was it the other way around, she wondered?

"Your wounds are healed. Completely." Legolas said.

Though he meant to wait till the morrow, the Elf changed his mind. Jordan sighed inwardly. Shifting to a kneeling position, Jordan regarded her Elf as he sat up. Legolas expected his lover to evade the question as she did before, but was surprised when Jordan answered.

"Yes," she calmly acknowledged.

"How is it possible?" the Elf asked.

"Like I told you in the forest – I heal quickly." Jordan answered. Legolas cocked his head and regarded the Immortal.

"Your wounds should take days – even weeks to heal, yet you are whole. It is beyond the ability of a mortal." Jordan neither confirmed nor denied his statement.

It was a golden opportunity, the chance to tell Legolas the truth. Instead, she studied the Elf with a thoughtful expression on her face. The Immortal chose her words carefully.

"I don't know how it works, but I heal quickly. Ever since I was hit by a jeepeny, my . . . wounds heal quickly. I bleed and hurt like anyone else, but . . . I heal a little quicker than normal," she answered slowly. It was, after all - the truth.

Legolas did not know what manner of creature a 'jeepeny' was, but it did not sound pleasant. Ever since her arrival, Jordan did not speak in detail of her personal life, other than she helped heal at a place called "The Hospital", which explained her affinity for the House of Healing, the Healers and Apprentices.

"How did you disappear underwater? I couldn't see you." Jordan asked.

She wondered about a few things herself. Elves themselves were magic. It was simply a part of their being. Legolas was unsure how to explain it in terms his mortal beloved was able to understand.

"'Twas . . . 'magic'," Legolas said, smiling at Jordan's skeptical expression.

"I merely invoked an invisibility spell." He explained.

"Are all Elves magic users?" Jordan asked.

"To varying degrees," Legolas answered.

Since Jordan was sharing information, the Elf wished to know more. Legolas thought back to the night in Trollshaw Forest when he thought her asleep, and from a distance away, believed her to be. Instead, before he reached their campsite, Legolas watched Jordan startle awake. In fact, she peered into the night and searched the shadows until he revealed himself. And in the glade, Jordan looked in his direction, though he remained hidden, high in the tree limbs above.

"How is it you know when I approach? No Mortal is able to." Jordan almost laughed aloud, but remained silent though a smile escaped her.

_ Because I'm not mortal._ the woman thought.

"It's a feeling I get about you deep inside - whenever you're near." Jordan answered honestly with a teasing smile.

What Jordan did not tell the Elf was that she got the same feeling about all other Immortals. It was the Elf's turn to look skeptical. The Immortal decided her lover was asking way too many questions. What Jordan disliked even more was the fact that she was answering them. Jordan suspected that, without much effort, the Wood Elf could pull the deepest secrets from her heart. Jordan decided a distraction was in order; an idea came to her, when her eyes fell on the fruit the Elf spread on the blanket. Perhaps there was a way to compromise . . .

"There are five senses most living creatures have. " Jordan said as she straddled the Elf's thighs; Legolas wondered what his lover was up to.

"Sight," Jordan kissed his eyes closed as she looped her arms loosely around the Elf's neck.

"Aye." He answered softly.

With the woman naked in his lap, conversation was definitely not what he had in mind. Legolas grasped Jordan's waist and settled her in his lap so that she could feel his growing erection. The Wood Elf hoped Jordan would take the not-so-subtle hint. Perhaps it was fortunate Legolas still wore his breeches, for Jordan was not done. The Immortal took an orange from the pile of fruit and scratched the peel, releasing the fragrant oil in the zest before she held it under Legolas' nose.

"Smell." Jordan murmured.

The Elf's wandering hands threatened to distract the Immortal from her purpose; already, she was aching for him. Jordan rubbed the Elf's nose with her own then she kissed the tip as she tore the orange in half and separated a section, peeling off the stringy white pith. Enjoying their little game, Legolas kept his eyes closed, preferring to use his other senses. He was just a little harder; Jordan could definitely feel the difference. Though he had loved her in the bathing room, and many times since in the privacy of her quarters, Legolas wondered at the woman straddling him; every time they joined felt like the first time. As if that was not bad enough, Jordan effortlessly had him in a constant state of arousal. Legolas could not recall ever wanting a maiden so badly, or so often.

"Taste."

The Immortal placed section of the orange in Legolas' mouth; watching his lips, Jordan fought the urge to kiss him. It did not last long; licking the Elf's lips, Jordan savored the citrusy taste on her lover's tongue.

"Sound."

The Immortal whispered in his ear then traced the pointed tip with her lips, smiling as Legolas shifted restlessly beneath her.

"Touch."

Reaching down, Jordan ever so gently stroked his bulge, then raked her nails lightly over the soft leather, before she squeezed Legolas between his legs. The Elf's eyes flew open, hot with desire. Legolas' blue gaze rested on the Lórien leaf suspended at his eye level between them. Hooking a finger in the delicate chain, the Mirkwood Elf gently pulled Jordan to him for a searing kiss. Dropping the orange onto the blanket, Jordan used one hand to slowly undo the ties of his leggings, the other to stroke and gently squeeze his engorged elfhood thru his breeches. With a growl, Legolas rolled Jordan over, settled himself between her legs, and rubbed against her suggestively. Lowering his golden head to the woman's luscious breasts, the Elf kissed them softly, avoiding the tempting areoles to stir her desire further. When he did finally put his lips to her pointed nipple, Jordan moaned. Her nipples hardened as Legolas flicked his warm tongue over them. When they seemed to be as plump as he could make them, the Elf suckled one. Jordan's moans increased and she stroked his head encouragingly.

Her lover held one breast in each palm and alternated between them, licking the nipples until Jordan nearly swooned and then the Elf switched to the other. Legolas looked up at her face because he loved to watch her reaction; the woman's eyes were closed and her head was tilted back — Jordan looked lost in a wonderful dream with her pretty face in a kind of trance; she would never ask her Mirkwood lover for what she wanted — her modesty prevented it — instead, she sent subtle signals to the Elf. Swift to read and learn them, Legolas was happy to oblige. Now Jordan rocked her hips forward and back in a slightly suggestive rhythm, unconsciously asking to be filled by him. Legolas kissed his way down Jordan's body, from breastbone to navel, and then slowed his pace as he approached her mound. Hovering over her, the Elf inhaled deeply; Jordan filled up his senses; her clean, uniquely feminine scent mingled with that of the surrounding flowers; it was a marvelously heady combination that hardened Legolas more and made him slightly dizzy as the blood rushed to his elfhood. Jordan's hands went to his head. She tensed and attempted to draw her thighs together.

"Legolas . . ." Jordan said, uncertainly.

The Immortal raised herself on her elbows and began to sit up. She had a strong indication where this was leading, and Jordan was not sure if she was ready for . . . _**that**_. The Elf looked up at her, a smile threatening to surface.

"Estelio enni, meleth nín (Trust in me, my love)." Legolas murmured against her lips before kissing her deeply.

With his excellent night vision, Legolas could see his lover's face was an endearingly bright shade of red. He was going to enjoy this, and was confident that Jordan would, too - if she would only relax. Kissing her eyes closed, Legolas silently encouraged her to let her senses guide her; his mouth tenderly worshipped Jordan's mouth. The Elf's hands were busy stroking his lover's hips before he inserted his long fingers and caressed her intimately. Nibbling at her neck, the Mirkwood Prince could feel Jordan's pulse race beneath his lips. Working his way downward, his mouth left a hot trail as he moved from her breasts to her belly. Slowly relaxing under Legolas' skillful touch, Jordan moaned and spread her legs a bit wider as his fingers massaged her wetness. Smiling inwardly, Legolas glanced at his lover's face. She had opened her eyes, her gaze enveloping him in a mute message of loving trust and heated desire. Legolas gently parted his lover's knees and placed warm, moist kisses upon her inner thighs and all along the contours of her labia. However, it was just the beginning. With his hands, Legolas gently parted her swollen nether lips to expose every glistening part of her. Her hidden pearl was enticingly revealed to him - his for the taking; the Elf decided he would save that for last. The Mirkwood Prince paused. Beneath him, his lover quivered with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. Legolas' own arousal was magnified tenfold, but he restrained himself, his only thought now was to please his lover.

Lowering his golden head, Legolas dipped his tongue into her womanly nectar. Jordan tasted of salt air and fresh breezes but also of rich, spicy femininity. The Immortal gasped and almost fainted when she felt his intimate kiss. As his tongue played at and licked her engorged nub, the Immortal spread herself wide for him, lost in the myriad of new, intensely erotic sensations. Legolas swirled his tongue around the raised nub very slowly, altering the rhythm and direction of his tongue in order to prolong the sensual agony of his lover's pleasure. Her entire body stiffened and arched as she buried her hands in the Elf's silky hair. With one hand on her belly, Legolas gently held his lover down; her legs were splayed open for him now in wanton abandon as he relentlessly continued to explore her intimate regions. The Wood Elf reveled in the sound of his name on Jordan's lips as his lover called his name over and over again; it drove him on as he rhythmically plunged his tongue deep within her, lapping up her wetness. Legolas left no part of her velvety folds untouched . . . untasted . . . unlicked . . . unloved.

When Jordan came, her cries of pleasure rent the air, but the Elf was not finished with her. Panting, Jordan had not yet caught her breath; she raised her head to see Legolas' golden head still buried between her legs. Not bothering to stifle her throaty moans, Jordan's hands knotted the blanket as she groaned; the Immortal's body undulated and bucked as Legolas continued to greedily lick her, before he gently and steadily suckled the little bundle of nerves, using the rough top of his tongue to deliver a new sensation, pushing his lover once again over the edge of whatever precipice she called pleasure. Her loud cries only served to inflame the Elf's desire; his elfhood was now so hard he could barely even think.

"Legolas . . . !" Jordan pleaded.

Flipping Jordan over, the Elf stroked her smooth backside and roughly pulled her hips toward him. With his elfhood past the point of containment, the Immortal barely had time to brace herself on her forearms when Legolas mounted her from behind. The Wood Elf gritted his teeth, the mushroom shaped tip of his elfhood parted his lover's intimate folds, seeking entrance. The Mirkwood Elf plunged his member's full length inside the woman; not giving her a chance to adjust to his girth - his strokes so hard, it was almost brutal. Legolas' breath came in ragged gasps, feeling the sweet heat of Jordan's nether walls envelope his turgid member, rhythmically squeezing his girth in perfect time with his hard thrusts. If Jordan was any hotter, Legolas swore he might have felt pain. Thru the hazes of pleasure, the Immortal heard Legolas speak in Elvish, some sounded familiar, but most she did not understand, and the Immortal didn't bother trying.

"Melithon le anuir (I will love you forever), Jordan!" the Elf hoarsely proclaimed his love for the Immortal to the heavens above.

Unfortunately, Jordan was unaware of the magnitude of her lover's words, for she was being intensely pleasured, fast approaching the bliss that she had just reached moments before – and now she was reaching for the stars yet again. Jordan, however, did hear when Legolas called her name out as he thrust in and out of her warm, tight walls; his ragged groans mingled with hers as he felt her intimate vise continue to squeeze his elfhood. The Immortal rocked back to meet each possessive thrust as her lover delved deeper into her with each powerful, rhythmic push. Legolas forced himself to contain his release until Jordan reached her climax.

The Mirkwood Elf gave in to his need and surrendered to her. His own orgasm surged forth, the heat racing from his belly, thru his elfhood to explode deep within his lover's womb, pouring his seed into her, filling her with his essence. Legolas' shout of pleasure echoed across the water. Still joined, the spent lovers laid together in a tangle of limbs, surrounded by nature's wonders as they caught their breaths. Legolas pulled Jordan close and spooned her to him; they lay that way in silent contentment until she spoke

"Do all Elves have such stamina in bed?" Jordan murmured, happily exhausted.

Had Jordan been able to see, Legolas' smile was unabashedly arrogant.

"We do not tire easily like humans." He answered.

The woman rolled her eyes at his smug tone of voice.

"I believe it," the Immortal said wearily.

Jordan ached pleasantly and tingled all over . . . especially _there_, where the Elf paid special attention to her. Legolas had not left an inch of her body untouched. Jordan wondered if it was realistically possible to become addicted to someone (actually, one Elf in particular), for even after being repeatedly, most thoroughly and expertly loved for almost the entire day, the Immortal still burned for Legolas' touch . . . and his maddeningly skillful tongue.

_Oh, Coll – you were right! With the right One, you can't get enough . . . n__o wonder people talk about it, sing about it and pay ode to it obsessively_. Jordan thought privately.

"At this rate, you'll be the death of me." Jordan murmured tiredly, as she snuggled closer to the Elf. Legolas' arms tightened around her painfully.

"Legolas . . .?" the Immortal asked, bewildered. Jordan was unsure of what she said to ruin their previously blissful mood.

"Do not speak of death, Melamin." The Elf said sharply.

"Everything dies, Legolas." Jordan tried to shrug, but the Elf's grip on her shoulders prevented the movement. "Even Elves can die, Legolas."

"I do not want you to die, Melamin." Legolas replied.

Jordan wriggled in her lover's arms until he released her. She sat up and faced the Elf; her expression was both amused and thoughtful. Dying was unpleasant business. And it hurt. Jordan had already expired twice in her lifetime, and she had no desire to go for a 'three-peat'. Especially in Middle-Earth – for it would require some major explaining.

"Neither do I, Legolas. In fact, I plan on doing my best to stay alive for a very long time." Jordan answered softly.

Although the subject of death and dying didn't bother her (she'd been there and done that), Jordan could see it troubled the Elf. Part of her wanted to reassure him that she didn't die easy; ultimately, she decided it best to leave it unsaid, for the knowledge once given, could not be taken back. For now, Jordan decided, she must continue to be careful. Not wanting to lose their blissful mood completely, the Immortal searched the blanket for the previously discarded orange. Perhaps she'd be able to distract her lover's attention from the morbid topic. Her gaze fell on a flat, slender wooden box. The lid was decorated with oak leaves etched in silver that glowed in the moonlight.

"What's this?" she asked, curious.

"Open it, Melamin." Legolas said.

Jordan opened the wooden box. Resting on a bed of green velvet was a choker; had it been daylight, the Immortal would better appreciate the delicate, vine-like strands of the precious metal gracefully woven together in the Elven fashion; in the middle was a loop designed to suspend a charm or other such jewel. On either side of the loop were the richest, clearest grass green emeralds that held just a touch of blue, cut and arranged to resemble tiny oak leaves.

"It's beautiful, Legolas." Jordan breathed. At least she was sure it was. The Immortal couldn't tell what color the gemstones were, but if they came from the Elf, they would be pretty.

"It is yours." The Elf said. Transfixed by the exquisite collar, her lover's words did not immediately sink in.

"Really – it's for me?" she asked, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Gimli did not want it, so I thought mayhaps you would." Legolas said, with a teasing smile on his face.

"You -!" Jordan smacked the Elf on the shoulder.

Legolas caught her hand and held it over his heart. The Immortal looked at him. For a brief moment, the Immortal had an uneasy feeling of déjà vu, for the last time someone gave her a piece of jewelry, her life had taken an unexpected and dramatic turn.

The pleasure he felt at her delight faded when his lover closed the lid and pushed it across the blanket towards him.

"I can't take this, Legolas." Jordan said regretfully.

"Amman (why)?"

"Well, it's expensive, and . . . I have nothing to give you in return." She answered mournfully.

"Tisn't 'expensive'; 'tis a necklace." The Elf provided helpfully.

"Silly! I know what it is – I meant that it must have been costly . . ." Jordan answered, laughing. She sobered again and gazed longingly at the jeweled collar.

"Then mayhaps you would consider a trade . . . ?" Legolas countered slowly.

"Fair enough," Jordan eagerly conceded.

"What did you have in mind?" Jordan asked as she reopened the box and removed the choker.

Despite her earlier misgivings, Jordan did want the necklace. The woman decided now, unlike when she accepted the Leaf, a fair trade was in order. Legolas did not fear Jordan's over-eager fingers would bend or destroy the delicate workmanship, for despite its beauty, the true silver was harder than steel. The hinges so cleverly integrated into the design, it appeared to be one continuous band. With an indulgent smile, the Elf took the jeweled necklace from the Immortal as Jordan held her hair away. As Legolas fastened it around her neck, Jordan couldn't help but feel slightly unsettled; there seemed to be a sense of finality when the Immortal heard the tiny 'snikt' of the clasp. Jordan didn't get the chance to ponder it further as her lover spoke, unaware of the woman's thoughts.

"Hmmm . . . this is a beautiful weapon, Melamin. What is its value?" Legolas asked as he drew her Katana from behind the rucksack and examined the carven ivory hilt.

_More than you could possibly know_, thought the Immortal to herself. Her sword is an inseparable, integral part of her.

_A strange choice of adornment._ Legolas thought privately as he studied it. The arched neck of a crested game fowl adorned the ivory pommel.

"Do you have a particular love of pheasants?" The Elf inquired.

"That's not a pheasant – it's a Phoenix!" Jordan exclaimed indignantly as she gently pried his fingers loose.

"Sorry, anything but that. Choose something else." She replied.

"Your throwing shards." Legolas bid.

"Shuriken." Jordan corrected her lover.

"Shuriken. Hmmm . . . on second thought, they are damaged - " the Elf mused.

"I've got four in good condition! And I guarantee you won't find anything like it in Rivendell!" Jordan protested.

Her mind was working overtime, wondering what she could barter in return, for Jordan knew her Leaf would look fabulous surrounded by the gemstones and silver vines on either side of the loop. If she managed to successfully haggle with the Elf, her limited jewelry collection could very well begin to grow quite nicely.

"This trinket is of great worth. No . . . I must have something to match its value, for it is very precious to me." Legolas said. Jordan tried to hide her disappointment as she reluctantly reached up to unclasp the choker, but then she hesitated.

"I could cook for you." What she would cook, Jordan had no idea. But, she had to try.

"That is what the kitchens are for."

"I'll clean your quarters . . . I'll do your laundry." It was a major concession on her part, for Jordan hated doing domestic duties, and she sent most of her clothes to the dry cleaners.

"I will not have you labor like a common servant. That is what servants are for." Legolas said stiffly.

Jordan gave him a strange look. Ever since she'd arrived in Rivendell, she'd worked either at the House with the Healers, and most recently, the kitchens. Legolas hadn't protested once.

"Then you'll have to take it back. I have nothing to give in return." The woman said reluctantly.

Though she wanted the necklace, Jordan knew when to cut her losses. Perhaps Gimli and his Cave wouldn't mind parting with a few large diamonds and a ruby or two to make up for the loss of the necklace. After all, the Dwarf did say that the precious stones were considered mere playthings to the hardy race, for they considered something called 'mithril' to be their true measure of wealth.

"I beg to differ, Melamin." Legolas grasped Jordan's wrists and pulled her atop him. The intensity of his gaze made the Immortal shiver.

"What do I have that you'd want?" she whispered.

"Have you not guessed, Melamin?" Legolas inquired softly.

"You'll have to spell it out for me, Legolas."

"Everything. I want everything." He murmured before roughly kissing her.

Legolas rolled the Immortal over onto her back, his elegant hands still encircling her wrists. They were only slightly more giving than steel.

"Your body you give to me." Legolas said looking down at her.

The Elf moved Jordan's hands so they were above her head. Holding her wrists loosely in one hand, Legolas stroked his free hand down her cheek and neck, and then placed a kiss between her breasts. Jordan's breathing quickened, wondering what he was up to. Legolas continued to look into her eyes thoughtfully as his hand kneaded her left breast.

"Your heart I want."

"You have it," the Immortal confessed. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

"Do I?" the Elf inquired.

"Yes." Jordan answered.

Legolas knew sure as the stars shone overhead, that he loved this woman. Would she love him as he did her? Was it enough - would it last for the length of her natural life? The Elf would love Jordan, until the bloom of her youth withered away; he would watch her beauty and life fade as the flowers and the grass of the earth, until the day he'd hold her in his arms for the last time. When her eyes closed in death and it is time to lay her beloved body to rest in the ground, in silent, eternal repose, Legolas would endure the pain - the unspeakable agony her death would bring. . . was he willing to endure that as well? Would he fade with grief? Perhaps not; Legolas knew he loved Jordan enough to fight the overwhelming grief, to immortalize her memory in his heart, so she would live as long as he did . . . without end.

"Then Bind yourself to me, Jordan." Legolas said quietly. Jordan looked at him, not understanding the significance of the Elf's request.

"Marry me, Jordan." He urged again, in words he was sure his lover could understand.

"You're joking, right?" the Immortal asked. Legolas' look darkened.

"You make light of my heart."

"No! It's just – it's not every day I get a proposal of marriage."

"Good, for if you did, you could not Bind yourself to me."

"Legolas . . . Are you sure about this?" the Elf sighed before answering her.

"Melamin, unlike mortals who wrestle with themselves, Elfkind do not. Once we search our hearts and know it is true, it is steadfast and sure."

"But . . ."

"You do not wish to bind yourself to me." The Elf concluded stiffly. This was not how Legolas envisioned the scene to play out.

_Why must this be so difficult?_ Legolas wondered, truly perplexed.

"I didn't say that -" Jordan protested

"Then what is stopping you?" Legolas asked.

"There are things you don't know about me, Legolas." Jordan replied slowly. 

"Then tell me, Melamin." He urged.

Legolas awaited her answer with a unique sense of anticipation. His heart was pounding in his chest as he waited in suspense. Instead, Jordan closed her eyes and turned her face away. This was definitely not what the Elf had in mind.

_When in doubt . . . don't_. It was a delicate situation requiring carefully chosen words.

"You asked if I trusted you." She cast a sidelong glance at Legolas.

"Why do you evade the question? What needs be all this secrecy?"

"Please trust me when I say I have my reasons." Jordan gave the Elf a hard look. He could see the internal struggle before her features settled into a cold expression. It was a side of his lover Legolas had never seen before.

"When we go to see this Mithrandir . . . if I'm still here, I'll tell you everything you need to know. I can't answer you until then."

"What are you hiding, Jordan - Why will you not tell me?" Legolas asked, close to losing his patience. By the Valar, this woman was unlike any maiden he'd come across.

"Please, Legolas. Trust me." She asked quietly. 

Though unhappy with the turn of events, Legolas decided to not push the issue. It was enough for the Elf that his lover wore his gift around her neck. He had no choice but to wait for her answer. More and more, the Elf felt his destiny intertwine with his lover's in Gondor. In the meantime, beneath the bright hunter's moon, Legolas kissed Jordan until the cold expression melted and the woman smiled once more. In spite of their private thoughts, when Jordan reached for her lover once again, the Immortal and her Prince continued their loving reunion, well into the night, until the stars faded away.

#

Listening to the sleepy birds welcome the dawn, Legolas quickened his pace. He was already late for his meeting with the Dwarf. Cradling the sleeping woman in his arms, Jordan did not wake once. The Wood Elf moved swiftly along the quiet paths; the dead weight of his precious burden, and the bulky rucksack had no effect on his long strides as they ate up the ground. Swiftly, Legolas covered the distance in an astonishingly short amount of time. As he made his way towards Jordan's quarters, the Elf gazed down at the token of his affection. The gem encrusted mithril collar looked right around her neck, the Elf decided, and so did the Leaf that was suspended in the middle. Up the stairs and across the room he went; depositing the woman in her bed, Legolas removed Jordan's katana from the rucksack and slid it beneath her pillow before kissing her lips, not feeling an ounce of guilt for having worn out his lover in the most pleasant of ways.

As an afterthought, Legolas laid a hand gently on Jordan's flat belly, imagining it swollen with his child. An Elfling.

Reluctantly, the Elf left his lover's side. Taking the fastest route to the common eating halls, Legolas contemplated raising a family with his lover. If Jordan chose not to Bind herself to him, perhaps a child would persuade her to remain with him. A little Princess with her mother's black hair and his blue eyes, or a Prince with his fair hair and his mother's green eyes. No, the Elf decided – twins. Twins would be most delightful. King Thranduil, after getting over the initial shock of having a Mortal for a daughter-in-law, would surely love their children dearly. At every given opportunity, was the Elf's intent to keep Jordan's womb filled with his seed, with the fondest hopes the Valar would bless them with children. With the fate of Middle-Earth in peril, there was no time to indulge in personal gratification. Jordan Waters had changed that in mere moments for him. For centuries, he had not felt the yearning to take a wife. Legolas not only took Jordan as his first mortal lover, he desired her to Bind herself to him, and now he was planning their future children! It was his heart's fondest desire for their future children to play and grow up with Prince Eldarion and his sisters.

"Alas, so much rests on our journey to Gondor." Legolas muttered as he entered the Common hall. Legolas spied the Dwarf at a table and went to join him. Looking up briefly, Gimli grunted and continued to roll up the parchment before affixing his seal onto the melted wax.

"So, how are you, Laddie?" Gimli asked. He need not bother, for the smile on the Elf's face said it all.

Gimli chuckled to himself, glad for his pointy-eared friend. Legolas thanked the servant who set upon the table meat, bread and cheeses. As they ate, the Dwarf and the Elf's conversation turned to their pending journey. Apparently, the Dwarf was busy recruiting more Dwarven help to assist in the rebuilding of the White City; it was a daunting task, amassing the materials and skilled artisans. Legolas knew there was no better Dwarf suited for the task than the stout fellow seated across from him. Gimli was busy rattling off more details to his friend when he noticed Legolas was not listening. It was nothing discernible, yet Gimli knew his friend well enough as a Dwarf could ever hope to know an Elf, and the Mirkwood Prince was preoccupied.

"What troubles ye, Laddie?" Gimli asked.

The Dwarf was surprised when his pointy-eared friend answered right away. Legolas did not like having his fate decided by circumstances beyond his control; perhaps they should prepare to leave for the White City sooner than planned. The dread Legolas felt before he left for Mirkwood returned with a vengeance. Something was going to happen - and soon. He was certain of it. Legolas wished Mithrandir were in Imladris, for the Elf knew the wizard would know what to do. In the meantime, the Prince decided to seek his friend's opinion on a small matter that continued to puzzle him.

"I do not understand why she sleeps with her sword beneath her pillow. It is always within reach." Legolas said.

Gimli studied his friend. It was new, having the Elf confide in him with his . . . relationship woes. Gimli couldn't remember the Elf ever having problems with the fairer sex, for in Meduseld, the maidens were more than willing to see to the Elf's . . . 'needs', but he always refused. And Gimli didn't need to ask who 'She' was.

"Is that wrong? We keep our weapons close." Gimli shrugged it off. He belched loudly after taking a long draught of his ale.

"We are warriors." The Elf pointed out.

"Jordan is a Healer by trade. Why is she compelled to keep her weapon close - what does she fear in Imladris?" Legolas asked. The Elf-friend grunted.

"Be as your arrows and aim for the matter that troubles you. Ask her," Gimli suggested.

"Besides, who understands females? Their hearts are but deep caverns of secrets. No telling what goes on in their heads." the Dwarf said with a knowing nod of his bushy head.

"Heed my words, Little Princeling. . . " Legolas shot the Dwarf a look.

"Enjoy her charms while you can. The leaves are turning and we will soon be on our way. Who knows what awaits us in Gondor."

The Mirkwood Prince was about to tell the Elf-friend he asked Jordan to Bind herself to him when a servant appeared, stilling the words upon the Elf's lips.

"Prince Legolas, Lord Elrond requests your and Master Gimli's presence." The Dwarf and the Prince exchanged glances, wondering what the summons entailed.

"Thank you; we will be there shortly." Legolas replied.

#

The sound came again, disturbing her rest. Pulling the pillow over her head, Jordan willed herself to go back to sleep. The sheets were soft, and smelled like Legolas. Sighing with pleasure, Jordan was about to drift off when the sound came again, this time more obnoxiously insistent. With a start, Jordan realized she was in her bed. Flipping over in bed, the Immortal looked around the room. Was it a dream? Her hand flew to her neck, where her fingers touched the cool metal of the jeweled collar around her neck.

"No . . ." it was real.

"I'm coming . . .!" the Immortal mumbled, touching a hand to her head.

She was so tired. The intimate aches Jordan was feeling provided a sensual reminder of the Elf's thorough and enthusiastic loving. Unfortunately, the Miruvor did not last as long as the Elf; Legolas had made love to her all day yesterday, and Jordan honestly believed the Elf would have made love to her all night until, much as it pained her, she refused to allow him to touch her beyond a cuddle. Jordan desperately needed to sleep - not that she was complaining. She just needed a little break; slowly getting out of bed, Jordan was not certain she could walk normally. Gingerly, the Immortal made her way towards the door and pulled it open to find Ceallach standing in the hallway. The Immortal looked blearily at the she-Elf.

"Lady Jordan, Lord Elrond requests your presence in his study." She Elven maiden said. Jordan nodded, stifling a yawn behind her hand.

"I'll be there." She said wearily. The maiden hesitated.

"I believe it is urgent, Lady Jordan." She said.

_Fine. I guess that means 'now'. _ The Immortal thought. Jordan wasn't in the mood to argue. She would go and see what this was all about, for then she could hopefully rest for a few hours.

"I was just on my way to take a quick bath." The Immortal assured her.

#

Lord Elrond stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out his westward facing window. He had seen the heights of glory during the time of the Elves, dark days and strange times; it appeared the strange times were without end. The Peredhil's musings were interrupted when a servant announced Jordan's arrival. Signaling the Elf to show her in, the woman's steps brought her further into the room.

"Hello . . ." The Immortal said; turning to face her, Elrond studied her with a thoughtful expression.

"Lady Jordan. Please, come with me." He instructed her.

Gesturing for her to follow, the Ruler led the Immortal to a side door that opened onto a wide, open patio. When Lord Elrond stopped, Jordan's steps slowed. Legolas and Gimli were present as well. Behind the Dwarf and Jordan's lover were two more Elves, the twin sons of Lord Elrond; they were speaking with the fair Elf and the Elf-friend. When Jordan appeared, all conversation ceased as they turned towards her. The Immortal looked at each person individually, wondering why he was gazing at her expectantly. After a moment, the Elves and Dwarf stood aside and watched the woman's reaction. Jordan's eyes widened in disbelief and joy.

"Duncan . . .?" Jordan breathed. The Highlander was there, too!

"Duncan!" With a squeal of joy, the Immortal ran towards her Mentor.

Though his outward expression was impassive, Legolas was taken back as he watched Jordan launch herself at the Stranger. The Dark One caught the Elf's lover up in his arms; the dusty, travel stained folds of his long, dark coat enveloped the youngest Immortal, almost hiding her from sight as she wrapped her arms tightly around the Clansman's neck.

"Jordie! Thank God we found you!" Duncan murmured softly.

After a long while, the Scot held Jordan away from him. The fair Elf moved so that he could see all interaction between his lover and the new arrivals. Legolas frowned as the Chieftain's Son held Jordan tightly once more.

"Duncan . . ." Jordan began.

"Hmm?" the Highlander replied. The Scot closed his eyes briefly and sighed with relief. Now that he had her back, Duncan was not going to let her go.

"I can't breathe." Jordan whispered.

The Clansman relaxed his hold a notch as he rested his chin on top of his Student's head.

"How did you find me?" Jordan asked against his chest, content to stay in the big Scot's arms.

"It's a long story; maybe you should go see Joe; I'm sure it'll do him good to see you." The Clansman suggested.

"Joe's here? Where is he?" Jordan asked, leaning back in Duncan's arms. She was eager to see Joe's whiskered face once more.

"For eight days we rode; Joe caught a cold; it turned into pneumonia, so we rode harder and faster. If it wasn't for the Elves, he could have died."

"Where is he?" Jordan asked again, anxious and apprehensive. Looking into Duncan's face, she searched his features, trying to gauge the meaning behind his words; she'd feel entirely responsible if their friend worsened to the point of death. Duncan smiled down at her, scarcely believing he held her.

"I'm not sure where they brought him, but I'm assured he's well cared for. You know, if it wasn't for Adam, we couldn't have found you." Duncan said quietly. Jordan was so concerned for the Watcher that she didn't pay attention to the rest of the Highlander's words. What she did catch was the name.

"Adam? Adam who?" Jordan asked, quizzically.

"Am I that easy to forget?" a quiet voice asked softly.

The question came from behind her Teacher. Suddenly the Immortal felt cold deep inside. She recognized that voice. Even after all this time, she didn't – _couldn't_ forget it. Slowly, Jordan released her hold on the Clansman as Duncan stepped aside; her heart beat a little faster. There was no mistake. It was _he_.

"Adam. . . " Jordan said quietly as the blood drained from her face.


	26. Band of Brothers

Not since his earliest memories, when he first roamed the lands - watching the earth in its infancy change and evolve . . . doing his small part in history as nations rose and fell, did the Ancient One feel as he did now. Though told by the One who had been there of its splendor, never in his wildest imaginings could the Immortal believe a place such as Rivendell existed. But it did - and Imladris, the Last Homely House, managed to do the impossible: Methos, the oldest, most jaded and cynical of Immortals, held his breath in wonder. The Elven haven of beauty and calm truly was a land to be experienced firsthand - if possible. Leaning on his forearms, the Horseman idly watched the roaring waterfall a while longer, before turning his naked back on the spectacular landscape falling into shadow. The man reached into the armoire, removed a tunic and pulled it over his head, then shrugged into his overcoat, adjusting the weight of his hidden sword before he stepped into the hallway.

Though time stood still and decay restrained, the Horseman could not wait to leave this enchanted enclave of peace. There was no reprieve from the Buzz, the internal herald of potential doom. Unless Methos was expecting the Immortal triggering the alarm, he always chose flight. Others call it cowardice; the Eldest knew his legendary head – his collective knowledge, experience and power he possessed, would be an impressive feather in a younger Immortal's cap. For over five millennia, the Eldest walks the earth. The Ancient One did not reach his ripe old age by making foolish decisions; he chose his battles wisely; in his time, on his terms. Survival is not assured by the strongest sword arm - the Eldest wholly believed possessing the quickest wit - the ability to adapt, blend in and, when necessary - evade the enemy in order to live another day, another century. In Rivendell, the Buzz' continuous alarm set him on edge, rendering him unable to relax for mere moments at a time.

Methos sauntered along, nodding in greeting to the Elves he passed; the Eldest's leisurely strides slowed when he recognized the mural on the wall. He thoughtfully studied the composition; depicted in shades of grey and set against a barren landscape filled with sharp, craggy rocks, the pitifully impotent figure sprawled on his back was surrounded by shards of his devastated weapon, yet he raised the shattered sword - hoping to ward off the monstrous, menacing figure looming over him. The Immortal respected and admired the Man's desire to die fighting. Curiously, though the sword was broken, it still radiated light, bravely illuminating the oppressive gloom.

"So, this is where it comes from." The Immortal murmured to himself. That was one puzzle solved. The Ancient's eyes were drawn to the stone image directly across from the mural; the shield the figure held in its arms identical to the shield in Gregory's private office.

"Clever old goat." Methos chuckled as he walked around the statue. Watching the Elves below glide gracefully about their business, his thoughts returned to that day in the village of Bree. . .

: : : _: The Prancing Pony_

_The Stables_

_ "We've come to take her home." Methos added. Sifting thru his memories, the Eldest knew the twin Elves to be of importance. _

Ah, their names, their names-what are they? Elmer and Eldan. No, no - its Elwin and Elmo. . . bloody hell! _Methos thought, keeping his frustration to himself._

_ Able to recall memories long past with extraordinary clarity and detail, after encountering numerous individuals over the millennia, even the Eldest occasionally had difficulty remembering names. Methos privately dubbed the more serious of the twins 'Tweedle Dee', and the one who held Joe, 'Tweedle Dum'. After Tweedles Dee and Dum decided Joe is not a wizard - nor Lady Jordan was somehow trapped by enchantment - did they release the Watcher to his friends and sheath their long knives. Tweedle Dee examined the leg of their injured companion, who, like the Watcher was seated upon a bale of hay, his injured leg extended; the Outlanders' attackers spoke in the musical language that stirred the Ancient One's memory. Fluent in Hieroglyphics, Russian, French, Italian, Swahili, Lithuanian, Aramaic, Arabic, Coptic, Farsi and Latin, Methos' long unused Elvish required an incredible amount of concentration, and all the Eldest's linguistic skill to follow the Elves' conversation. __Methos was pulled from his memories at Joe's colorful cursing. While their attackers conversed amongst themselves, the Eldest took the opportunity to check Joe's wound. Removing the handkerchief, the Watcher held to his neck; the Ancient One saw the laceration, though deeper than he initially thought, was clean._

"_Crazy bastards. What the hell they think they're doin'?" The Watcher muttered angrily under his breath as he swatted the Ancient One's hands away._

"_You'll be fine, Joe." the Immortal said, keeping his grin to himself as the younger man snatched the handkerchief back from the Horseman._

_The Watched dabbed softly at his neck wound, grimacing from the pain; it hurt like a paper cut times ten. Of course, it did not compare to having your legs blown off by a land mine, but it still hurt - like hell. The Watcher now had a better understanding of how Immortals felt when a blade was at their throat. It was very . . . frightening. _

"_I've lived many lives; seen and done . . . things most people could not – would not understand." The Ancient One murmured thoughtfully._

_ "Yeah, so?" Joe grunted._

"_So add this to the list." Methos said briskly under his breath__._

"_You will come with us." The quieter twin commanded; the Immortals and Watcher exchanged glances._

"_Pouvons-nous leur faire confiance (can we trust them)?" the younger Immortal asked the Ancient._

"_Je ne pense pas que nous avons beaucoup d'un choix (I don't think we have much choice), MacLeod; Ils savent où elle est (they know where she is)." Methos replied._

_The motley group returned to the Prancing Pony, where they were shown to a private parlor. There, the Immortals spoke freely with their new 'acquaintances'. Over another round of drinks, they learned the name of the dark clad man, Breiric, a Ranger from the North; the more serious of the twin, Elrohir and his brother, Elladan -Elves from the realm called 'Rivendell'. Though the Elves and Ranger admitted to having seen Jordie alive, they would say no more. After learning more of the Immortals' and Watcher's quest, it was agreed between all parties, at daybreak, the twin Elves and Ranger would escort the Outlanders to Imladris. Taking their leave for the night, the Hobbit, Nob, led the Immortals and Watcher upstairs and down a narrow hallway. Swinging the door open, the Hobbit revealed a room simply furnished_

"_Well, gentlemen, this is on me." Methos said, his gaze sweeping about the rustic room. It did not matter, for they would not be staying long enough to worry about comfort._

"_Must be the presidential suite." Joe said dryly, looking down at the colorful nosegays on the beds_

"_Big spender." The Highlander commented. _

_Methos smiled and made for the bed closest to the window. His attention was drawn back when the Highlander cleared his throat, and directed a pointed look at the Hobbit. _

"_Oh, yeah . . . here you go." Methos gave the little fellow a silver coin, which Nob clutched tightly, his tiny face beaming with joy as he tucked it into his waistcoat pocket._

"_If you need anything, sir, I'll be helpin' you." Nob said eagerly._

"_I'll remember that." Methos said, watching the Hobbit close the door._

"_You were robbed, Old Man. I don't see any mints on the pillows." Joe said with a smirk._

"_Is there something you want to tell me, Methos?" Duncan asked._

"_As a matter of fact, I do. I get first dibs on the restroom." Methos replied with a grin. His expression became serious as he studied the Clansman. _

"_I think you already know." The Eldest added before the Watcher spoke up and before the Highlander could reply._

"_Well, I don't. What the hell is going on here, anyways?" Joe asked._

"_We're not in France anymore, Joe." Methos replied; the smile in his eyes belied his bland tone._

"_Oh, really? I was beginning to think there was something different about this place." The Watcher said sarcastically, feigning surprise. _

"_The attack in the forest should've tipped me off. No, no – wait! Getting my neck sliced by Mr. Spock should've given it away - where the hell are we anyways?!"_

"_More like 'when are we', Methos." The Highlander added._

"_I don't know; this place is about 2,000 years before my time." The Ancient One replied honestly as he turned to leave._

"_Where you going?" Duncan asked._

"_To take a leak. You coming with?" Methos rejoined smoothly._

"_I want answers, Methos." The Highlander said. Reining in his irritation, Methos turned back towards the younger Immortal and answered._

"_Your very expensive, very accurate watch stopped, MacLeod. Our mobile phones do not work. There is no electricity here. Elves exist. We're not in France anymore, Highlander."_

"_I already know that, Methos; what I want to know is how did you know they could help us?" Duncan asked stonily. _

_ "He's smarter than he looks, Joe." The Eldest commented sarcastically to the Watcher, before turning back to the younger Immortal. _

"_I did not. I still do not. It was just a lucky guess." The Ancient One replied, shrugging. _

"_Lucky guess, my ass!" Joe snorted, ignoring the exasperated look from the Antediluvian. __Somehow the Watcher didn't think the Eldest was entirely forthcoming with the truth._

"_You know, you knowing everything gets to be a huge pain in the ass." The Highlander said._

"_I don't know everything . . . just a lot of things." The Eldest clarified._

"_And what about all this? You always know more than you say - why didn't you say something before?" Duncan prodded._

"_As I said before: some things are meant to be. Others need to be played out." Methos replied, still not looking at the younger Immortal._

"_You sure can be a big pain in the ass. Especially when you think you're right." Duncan said._

"_Funny, I could say the same about you." The Eldest countered._

"_What – that I'm right?" the Clansman retorted._

"_No, that you're a big pain in the ass." Methos answered glibly._

"_Is this the part where I'm supposed to laugh?" the Highlander returned._

"_This is the part where I answer nature's call without further interruption, MacLeod – unless, of course, you wish to continue this conversation as I take care of business – and if you do, I insist that you respect me in the morning -" Methos said. _

"_Settle down, children and play nice in the sandbox." Joe interrupted._

_The Highlander shot his Elder a dark look before sitting on his bed. Testing the firmness of the mattress, Duncan snatched the nosegay from the pillow and buried his nose in it. The Ancient One turned back._

"_I suggest we rest while we can. Morning will come soon enough, and we ride out first light.": : : : _

Pushing away from the shadowed alcove, the Immortal made his way down the stairs. The Ancient One's steps brought him outside to a semi-private alcove. Methos took a seat upon the carved bench, his mind replaying their arrival in Imladris. . .

_ :::: The Horseman stretched; reaching beneath his overcoat, Methos massaged his aching bum. He could use a hot soak right about now, for it had been millennia since he had ridden at such a fast, hard pace.__ As for the Watcher, upon their arrival in a wide open courtyard, the Immortals silently watched as a beautiful she-Elf with chestnut brown hair seemingly glided towards them; eight male Elves were behind her, bearing stretchers; where the feverish Watcher was placed and swiftly borne away to parts unknown. Dismounting awkwardly, the limping, ashen-faced Ranger was helped onto the other stretcher and taken away as well. About to follow their friend, the Immortals came to a halt when the she-Elf, whose name Elrohir informed them was Læurenthail, raised a slender hand. After assuring the Men their friend would be well cared for, the maiden turned and left without a backward glance._

_Methos and the Highlander glanced at one another before Elrohir indicated the Immortals should follow him. As the Ancient and the Chieftain's Son followed the Elf, they looked around, returning the curious glances of the Rivendell Elves who paused to stare openly at the Outlanders. The Immortals were taken to one of the highest structures perched on the steep cliff side, where they were instructed to wait. There were no other Elves in sight, yet the Immortals knew unseen eyes watched their every move. It would be foolish to assume otherwise. The Highlander fixed his Elder with a look that spoke volumes. _

"_Why are we here, Methos?" Duncan asked in a low voice._

"_Because the Half-Elf should be able to help us, MacLeod." Methos said, walking the length of the balcony._

"_Where did you learn to speak their language?" the Clansman asked._

"_In England." The Horseman replied with a smile. "Maybe I'll tell you about it one day, pup." He turned away before the Highlander could ask another question._

_The Ancient One studied the architecture with an appreciative eye. Nature's fair hand shrouded the Elven haven in beauty; the mist rising from the many waterfalls caught the brilliant fingers of light reaching over the graceful gabled roofs and the towers of Rivendell, bending and refracting the beams into numerous rainbows that danced above the rushing waters in a stunning display of light and color. _

"_Adam . . ." The Highlander called to the Eldest when the twins reappeared - one on either side of a regal Elf, whom they bore a strong resemblance to._

"_My Lord, this is Adam, Son-of-Pier and Duncan of Mack Loud's Clan; Joe, Son-of-Daw and the Dúnedain were brought to the Healer." Elrohir addressed the one named Elrond. After the introductions were made, the Elves withdrew to a more discrete distance and spoke amongst themselves as the Immortals waited._

"_Que disent-ils (what are they saying)?" Duncan asked the Eldest._

"_Je ne sais pas (I don't know); Je ne peux pas entendre tout le lui (I can't hear all of it). En outre, qu'importe-t-il (Besides, what does it matter)? L'une ou l'autre manière, nous n'obtiendrons pas loin sans leur aide (we won't get far without their help)." Methos replied before he turned away once more._

_Gazing out at the many waterfalls and lower structures, Methos looked out from the aerie; the researcher in him marveled at Rivendell's structures. Skilled in basic archaeology, hieroglyphics, Cuneiform and Phoenician, this mystical culture fascinated the Immortal, for the Ancient One could plainly see faint traces of Elvish influence in the ancient cultures. The Eldest turned back, about to comment to the Highlander when he noticed two individuals coming towards them. Methos watched with interest as another Elf joined them; this one was blonde where the twins were dark, and at his side was a stout fellow, built like a barrel, whose gruff manner matched his outward looks perfectly. Methos knew exactly who they were, though he gave no outward indication. This time, it was Elladan who performed the introductions. Prince Legolas of the Mirkwood Realm and Gimli, son of Glóin, exchanged brief glances when the Highlander and the Eldest were introduced. Methos noticed that the blonde Elf's gaze lingered on the Highlander, as if sizing him up. _

So much for a small, intimate reunion. _The Ancient One thought wryly to himself._ _Methos' attention was diverted when the Ruler addressed the Ancient One._

"_Lle quena i'lambe tel' Eldalie (do you speak Elvish)?" Lord Elrond asked the Eldest._

"_Farn henia, hîr nín (enough to understand, my Lord)." Methos replied._

"_Mankoi naa lle sinome (why are you here)?" Lord Elrond asked the Ancient One._

"_We search for a Woman. His kin." Methos answered with a nod towards the Highlander. _

_The Peredhil turned to the Highlander and studied him thoughtfully. Duncan steadily returned the Ruler's gaze; Lord Elrond excused himself when a servant came and approached the Ruler, whispering into the Peredhil's ear. When next the Elf Lord appeared, Elrond had in tow the woman the Highlander sought. Methos could not help but feel slightly nervous as he, along with the others gathered, silently watched the reunion of the Highlander and his Student__,__ wondering what manner reception he would receive, for when they parted, the Ancient One and __weren't__ exactly on the best of terms._

"_How did you find me?" Jordan asked excitedly_.

"_. . . if it wasn't for Adam, we couldn't have found you."_

_ "Adam? Adam who?" Jordan asked. Steeling himself, the Eldest decided it was time to make his presence known._

_ "Am I that easy to forget?" Methos asked, watching Jordan's reaction. : : : : _

The Ancient One realized torches had been lit, aglow against the gathering darkness while he walked in his thoughts. Methos looked up in time to catch a glimpse of a dark head with long hair. The Immortal stood, and was about to call out to the lady, but the words froze upon his lips. She was too tall to be her, the hair was dark brown, not black – and the ears were pointed. Methos jammed his hands in his overcoat pockets and realized that he very much wanted to know where matters stood between he and Jordan. The Highlander was not the only one who had come for Jordan Waters.


	27. The Wizard's Pupil

Knowing the time of the Elves is drawing to a close, before the Outlanders' departure for the White City, Methos spent every moment he could with the Elf Lord in his athenaeum; this opportunity would come only once during his very long life. Every day spent in Imladris left the Ancient One with a sense of frustrated exhilaration; the Immortal's penchant for knowledge was awakened by the Peredhil's collection of tomes, and Methos pored over the writings in the Peredhil's library, filled with volumes of tomes written in Elvish. Handling maps in pristine, mint condition left the Eldest with a profound sense of loss; with so much to learn from Elrond, and precious little time to accomplish it, the irony was not lost upon the Immortal. Carrying a large scroll to the table, Elrond's scribe cleared a space on the desk and set it down next to Methos; the Eldest delved into it eagerly, reading and cross referencing, learning all he could of the history and language of the Firstborn; all the while, the Immortal and Lord Elrond conversed in Elvish. The Ruler of Imladris wondered how is it possible, this Stranger before him possesses an impressive grasp of the ancient language - and is able to understand, and fluently speak every word – each inflection and tense accurately.

"llie hinual vee' enna en' lye (You speak as one of our own), Adam." The Peredhil commented.

"Diol llie (Thank you)." The Immortal answered modestly, looking up from the scroll he was studying; he gave his host a small smile, pleased with the Ruler's acknowledgement. A quick glance outside indicated it was time to prepare for the evening, and hopefully speak with Jordan alone. Reluctantly, Methos carefully rolled the scroll up, and carefully placed it back its case.

"Sut uum llie istime lye lambe (How did you learn our tongue)?" the Elf Lord asked, genuinely curious; he accompanied the Son of Pier outside, and stood next to the Man. Methos gently touched the statue of a she-Elf whose outstretched arms embraced Imladris; gazing down in quiet contemplation, the Immortal sifted through his memories, back to when it all began . . .

_: : : : Merry Old England_

_King Arthur Pendragon's Court_

_410 A.D._

_ Not much was known about him – at least from those whom Methos inquired. Many called him a trickster, a charlatan. Whatever his title, he was challenged by none and came and went as he pleased. When at court, the 'Advisor' seldom left the Monarch's side. Rumor had it the old hermit is the young King's close Friend and Advisor. Methos could not say what it was about the old man that drew his attention; perhaps its because the Immortal caught the King's friend staring hard at him on many occasions. In fact, Methos realized, there was not one time the Immortal did not feel the Old Man's eyes boring into him, watching . . . observing, as if measuring his worth. At first, the Ancient One ignored the old man's stares. When the Ancient had the misfortune to encounter the King's Friend in a deserted passageway, the old fellow's piercing gaze made the Horseman feel most uncomfortable - despite the fact that words had not been exchanged. From then on, the Ancient One took great pains to avoid the Advisor, but that would soon change. During a recent Ceremony, as the Immortal stood with the other Masters-at-Arms, Methos' bored gaze wandered over the crowd of finely clad men and women gathered together. It took considerable effort on his part to not yawn; he was not much for ceremony or ritual, but his presence was required. Scanning the faces in the crowd, the Immortal made a mental note to thank the Fates, for he had yet to see the accursed Counselor._

_ Restlessly shifting his weight from foot to foot, Methos longed for the Ceremony to be done; not only was the Eldest tired from the previous night's carousing - he was very uncomfortable. He should not have drunk so much beer without relieving himself beforehand; and, as Lady Luck would have it, the Immortal found himself in the front row. There was no way Methos could quietly slip out from formation without committing a major faux pas. The Horseman was temporarily distracted from his discomfort as the gathered audience hushed when the King spoke. _

Who is he . . . ?_ Methos wondered lazily as he looked towards the dais._

_ Standing just behind the ornate throne, was a figure garbed in resplendent velvet of the deepest blue; gleaming silver swirls, patterns the Immortal would see again in the future, encircled the shoulders and full sleeves and flowed down the chest. The hem of the luxurious material sported the same fluid design. Methos watched in detached fascination as the elegant whorls shimmered and sparkled, noting the gleaming sword at his side. As the old man adjusted his grip on his staff, the red gem set in gold winked at the Immortal from the old man's finger. Methos did a mental double take. He recognized the staff - the white staff. Unless it is a doppelganger, there was only one person who carried it. With great surprise, the Immortal realized this regal person, a far cry from the home-spun clad figure freely roaming the King's apartments, whose snowy mane and beard was neatly trimmed and brushed, is indeed one and the same. Astonished, the Ancient quickly averted his eyes when he saw the Old Man watching him watch him. For the duration of the Ceremony, the Horseman doggedly kept his eyes front and center. When required to gaze upon his King, the Antediluvian made sure to focus solely upon Arthur._

I would do well to stay away from that One_. The Immortal thought sourly._

_#_

_ With time on his hands and no duties to see to one late spring day, the Ancient One decided to visit the Queen's garden. Methos would often escape to the meticulously tended grounds when he wished to think. Lately, he had been doing much of that. Thoughts of his days with the Horsemen, recently abandoned by choice, filled his mind. Curiously, the Ancient One often felt conflicting emotions when he thought of his 'wilding' days. _

_ "'Tis time to move on." Methos advised himself._

_ Perhaps the genteel ways of Arthur Pendragon, and those who followed him was softening the Immortal. Dismissing the ridiculous notion, Methos bent to smell the flowers. The blooms were especially fragrant this evening; the urge to crush the delicate bud in his hand –just because he could –was so strong, it was almost automatic. After a moment, the Horseman straightened and gently stroked the velvety petals. It felt . . . right to not destroy merely because it was within his power. The Ancient One critically studied the blossoms; the Queen was fond of roses, often receiving slips as gifts from visiting dignitaries and the King upon his return from his campaigns. As a result, Guinevere's rose garden, nestled within the heart of the maze, is said to be quite splendid – more spectacular than the lovely flowers surrounding the Immortal._

_ "Seeing is believing." The Ancient One said aloud._

_ Though Methos never before ventured within the verdant paths, soon the Immortal found himself standing at the entrance of the intricate hedge maze. It was rumored amongst the Knights and Masters-At-Arms that only the bravest and most noble of men should enter, for those of questionable character would be lost within, until the earth took pity and swallowed them whole. Scoffing at such romantic nonsense, Methos entered and soon lost himself inside the living walls of fragrant yew and hyssop from which the star shaped labyrinth was formed. _

_ "Perhaps there is a measure of truth to their mutterings." The Immortal said aloud as he came upon another dead end._

_ The Ancient One was often forced at various points to retrace his steps. Methos could not distinguish one way from another. When he jumped up, Methos could not see over the tall hedges; the dense shrubbery did not part when the Ancient One attempted to push through the thick growth, nor did it support his weight when he attempted to climb to see over the top. There was neither stone nor bench for him to stand upon. The Immortal did not think the Queen, the head grounds keeper, would appreciate it if he drew his sword and hacked his way out. Methos vigorously cursed his sense of curiosity in every tongue he spoke as walked on. The path was unchanging – and his shadow now stretched long upon the ground. It would be almost impossible to see his way after darkness fell. Methos knew the Knights and those At-Arms would rib him mercilessly when they discovered this little . . . 'adventure'. Methos focused – pushing past the panic and fear he would not be able to find his way out. About to give up in despair, Methos heard a faint splash. The sound of the hidden fountain enticed the Horseman forward, urging him to find the correct path towards the center of the maze__. __ Encouraged when the sound grew louder, Methos' pace quickened and his nose twitched, detecting the faint scent of roses. _

_ When the Immortal did finally arrive in the center of the maze, he sighed with relief. The flowing fountain stood tall and regal amidst the thick ring of roses. Methos made his way to the stone benches placed on either side of the fountain; he looked forward to sitting for a spell before attempting to find his way out. Of the entrances that led to the fountain, the Horseman managed to find the true one that led to the center. Methos splashed the cool water upon his face and neck; leaning on his hands, the Immortal gazed at his image, distorted by the rippling water. _

_ "North, east or south. Which is the way out?" Methos muttered aloud. _

_ The Immortal had one chance in three of successfully finding his way out before nightfall, but which one? Frustrated and a touch worried, the Immortal refused to think about it for the moment; instead, for reasons unknown, Methos thoughts took an unwelcome turn. He could not stop thinking about the King's Advisor and the recent Ceremony._

A fine robe and a bath do not change anything. He is what he is: a daft old man_. The Immortal told himself._

_ Methos dismissed the enigmatic hermit from his mind; the Immortal had more important matters to tend to – he had to find his way out. Afterwards, the Eldest planned to drink beer and while away the time with the Knights who would certainly be found there. Cheered with thoughts of an evening filled with merriment, the Immortal turned and almost shouted in surprise, for directly behind him stood the King's Friend himself. _

How can that be? I heard nothing!_ the Immortal thought to himself, completely unnerved._

_ While his heart resumed its regular beat, Methos' first impulse was to ignore the man and continue on his way; however, though it galled him to be in close contact with the old man, the Immortal heard himself greet the Advisor._

_ "Good even." Methos said, annoyed that his voice sounded stiff and overly loud._

_ Against the fading light, perched on his head, the wide brim of the Advisor's pointed hat cast his face in shadow. Gripping his white staff with both hands, the Advisor tilted his head back and coolly regarded the Immortal. Despite his resolve, Methos was the first to look away. The Immortal did not wait for a reply. Instead, he turned on his heel and hurried away in the opposite direction from the King's Friend. _

_ "Sir Methos!" the old Wanderer called as the Ancient One was about to step into the eastern path._

_ The surprisingly deep voice stopped the Immortal in his tracks. Arranging his face in what he hoped was a confident expression, Methos slowly turned back._

_ "I believe that is the way out." the old man said, with a nod south. _

_ Methos hesitated; the Immortal was about to ignore the old man's words but thought again. He did not wish to wander the maze in the dark. If the Advisor was lying, at the next earliest opportunity, Methos vowed he would slay the old Man and leave quietly thereafter. No one made a fool of him without paying for it; the Horseman had killed for lesser trespasses against his person . . . and his pride; he certainly would do so again without hesitation – King Arthur's wrath be damned!_

_ "Thank you." The Ancient One managed to choke out as he passed the King's friend, giving him wide berth as he stiffly walked towards the indicated direction. What Methos did not see, was the amusement on the old man's face, but he did hear the low chuckle. Angry with himself for scurrying away like a whipped dog in the presence of his master, the Immortal swore under his breath. _

_ "Ridiculous. Am I not Death? I'll not be cowed by an old man." Methos muttered, disgusted with his spineless behavior. _

_ Once he had taken the southern path as indicated by the Advisor, it was surprisingly easy to navigate his way back – almost as if an unseen force from without the green labyrinth was pulling him. Unfortunately, if Methos felt any semblance of gratitude, it was overwhelmed by his animosity towards the old hermit. By the time he reached the Common Hall, Methos' placid expression gave no hint of his foul mood. Amiably, the Immortal greeted the Knights and Men-at-Arms as he joined them at their corner table before the open fireplace; the roaring blaze in the center of the Hall did little to warm the large, drafty room. Quaffing his thirst with beer, and laughing at the occasional lewd joke, Methos was seemingly attentive to the Knight's highly embellished tales of daring and bravery. However, the Ancient One was in fact distracted, unable to forget the scene in the Queen's garden. Long after the others had left, Methos sat in the hall, brooding._

_ "After all the effort of finding the damned garden, I did not even have the chance to enjoy the roses." The Ancient One muttered to himself; the realization did not help his mood at all. Methos drained his tankard in one long swallow and calmly set it down on the table without a sound; when the serving wench collected his empty tankard, the Immortal's hand shot out and captured her wrist. The girl's frightened gasp drew his eyes up. _

_ "S-sir . . . you are hurting me." She whimpered, though she made no attempt to pull away._

_ The Immortal knew he was hurting her; he meant to hurt her. The Ancient One knew just how hard to squeeze to inflict pain without leaving bruises . . . large ones, at least. Absently Methos relaxed his grip but still held her fast; the small bones of her wrist felt delicate beneath his strong fingers. If he wished, he could snap her forearm in two with his bare hands. The Ancient One's gaze slid up; detachedly, he studied the soft mounds of creamy flesh straining against the top of her bodice -though worn, was clean, as was the girl. His eyes followed the curling tendrils that straggled from her cap and brushed the tops of her breasts; Methos wondered how long her hair was before he finally looked at her face. He had not seen her before, and the Ancient One found the serving maid to be quite comely; she had eyes like the desert, like the sands of his beloved Egypt. The Horseman felt his manhood stir with desire. He would have her, the Immortal decided - as he would have satisfaction for his wounded pride._

_ Methos stood abruptly, removed the empty tankard from the girl's hand and deliberately set it on the table; the cruel smile on the handsome Master-at-Arms face caused the serving maid to shrink back in wide-eyed fear, even as it mesmerized her – like a helpless bird transfixed by the serpent's deadly gaze. Her weak attempts to pull free of the Immortal's grasp amused Methos so, that he continued to toy with her - relaxing his grip enough to make her believe she could wrench her arm free, only to tighten it once more. Despite the fact that the Hall was beginning to fill with servants in preparation for the evening meal, the Horseman pulled the frightened maid to a shadowed corner and pushed her against the wall, ignoring her whimper of pain, and the dull thud as her head bounced against the wall. _

_ Methos yanked the worn cap off her head and let it fall to the ground, smiling with approval as her thick tresses fell well below her breasts. With his hand tangled in her hair, Methos pushed the serving maid against the wall once more and lowered his head to savagely suckle her neck. The girl's quiet gasp of pain as his teeth and lips left their mark - combined with her feeble attempts to push him away only served to excite the Horseman more as he swiftly undid the ties of his breeches. Soon, his hard length sprang free. Roughly, the Immortal turned the serving maid's head and lowered his mouth to hers; it displeased him that she kept her lips pressed tightly together. A hard pull on her hair fixed that little matter, and Methos was free to plunder her mouth at will; the ravishing of her mouth was but a hint of what was to come. Impatiently raising her skirts, Methos roughly lifted the serving maid by her hair and leg against the wall to open her to him; the maid had no choice but to grasp the Ancient One's shoulders and assist, lest her hair be ripped from her scalp. Methos positioned himself and was about to plunge into her, but paused when he heard her whispered plea._

_ "P-please, Sir. . . not here – not like this." _

_ For Ages, Methos and his phantasmal brothers Kronos, Silas and Caspian - the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, pillaged, raped and massacred many lands, leaving nothing but utter devastation and misery in their wake. The Ancient would do as he wished, and none would tell him otherwise. Anger, swift and hot filled him. As a Master-At-Arms, Methos swore fealty to no one – save Methos himself. Unfortunately, if he wished to remain a member of the Chivalry, chivalrous behavior was required of him. The trendy and much-vaunted 'code of honor' swept across the land, and was enthusiastically embraced by the Knights of the Round Table, most notably by Lancelot and Gawain. Methos, and other Knights of lesser rank, was still adjusting to the concept. The Immortal glared down at the girl, considering his options._

_ Four months ago, a troupe of traveling jongleurs stopped at the castle, seeking shelter and respite from their wanderings. In exchange for bread, they entertained the King and his court with outlandish stories, songs and skits, giving the court Fool a much-needed reprieve. During a particularly grand rainstorm, the Knights and Masters-at-Arms, accustomed to physical activity chafed under their forced idleness. A body can sharpen swords to a certain edge; the armor polished to a high sheen, that it magnified the candlelight, helping to cheer an otherwise dreary mood; unfortunately, it was not enough to stave off the rampant boredom. The most excitement of the day occurred when a trifling argument between the lesser Knights almost led to swords. Harmonious voices rose above the din, singing of chivalrous and gallant deeds as the minstrels strummed their fat-bellied lutes and lifted their tenor viols and recorders; skilled fingers and lips plucked from the delicate, expressive instruments chords that reached out and slowly calmed the restless men. _

Couple of songwriters comes up with the idea of 'chivalry' and the whole world goes to hell_. The Immortal fumed. _

_ Once again, Methos wondered why he did not just take her as he wished. She was nothing – just a lowly serving wench. Yet, even as he reasoned with himself, the words of the songwriters came back to mock him. Angrily pushing the 'code of honor' nonsense back in his mind, the Immortal made his decision. _

_ "Bloody hell." Methos muttered harshly as he backed away and looked at the her from beneath half-lidded eyes. Trembling, the poor girl had no idea his angry words weren't directed towards her. _

_ "What is your name?" Methos asked._

_ "Anaeia, Sir." She whispered; the chit's golden eyes were huge in her pale face. _

_ "I am Methos. Tonight, you live to serve me." He said. _

_ Still holding Anaeia by her hair, Methos curled his hand into a tight fist, delighting in her whimper of pain as her hands clutched futilely at his wrist. With his free hand, the Immortal reached into her bodice and pushed down one side, freeing a surprisingly ample breast. _

_ "Very well, Anaeia; kindly inform Cook I wish a bath, victuals and beer to be brought to my quarters . . . and your services will be required for the night. If you choose to not come, I will find you." Methos promised._

_ The Horseman tested the soft weight of Anaeia's supple breast in his palm and roughly kneaded it, watching her face as he rolled her nipple between his thumb and index finger. If possible, the poor girl's face became even paler, her lips pressed tight against the scream she wanted to release, instead, Anaeia quietly endured the humiliation. An unbidden image of Cassandra, his escaped Immortal slave came to Methos' mind. Perhaps it was a trick of the light; suddenly, Anaeia's eyes became Cassandra's. _

Cassandra_ . . ._

_ Blinking to clear his vision, Methos decided he had sported with the serving girl enough for the moment, and gave Anaeia a hard, bruising kiss before releasing her. The Immortal watched the girl as he reached for his purse. Stifling her sobs, Anaeia quickly covered her breast and picked up her discarded cap. The serving wench jammed her hat onto her head, and with shaking hands, quickly tucked her hair beneath its worn ruffles as she brushed away her tears. Catching hold of Anaeia's arm, Methos roughly jerked her back against him; the poor girl cringed as the Immortal tucked the silver coin between her breasts._

_ "Something to make the Cook more amenable to our . . . 'arrangement'." The Immortal murmured silkily in Anaeia's ear before he released her arm. _

_ Shaking her skirts out, the mortified girl fled from the Immortal's presence; Methos watched her go with a smirk on his lips, and tucked his flaccid member back inside his breeches. He was looking forward to the evening. Immensely. In his quarters, Methos stood before the hearth, staring at the flames as he waited. The three other Men-at-Arms he shared the space with were out a-whoring, and would be gone, no doubt, until morning – if that. The room was not much by the standards of this Age, but Methos did not mind – he had lived under much worse conditions. The simple room was better than sleeping outside, or in the halls, bedding down with the lesser Knights upon the often-dirty rushes covering the stone floors . . . or the Queen's maze. Inside, it was warm and dry. Perhaps the Horseman was spending too much time with the Knights of the Round Table, for their courtly, gentle ways were beginning to rub off onto him. The previously cluttered surface of the multi-purpose table was now bare; earlier, Methos had stuffed his room-mates' clothes littering the room beneath their straw filled mats, in an effort to make the place more tidy, all the while telling himself it was merely a token attempt at 'chivalry'. The Horseman was dragged from his thoughts when a loud knock sounded and four burly men entered, bearing a large tub between them. Anaeia entered last, struggling to carry a large wicker hamper in her arms. With a sweep of his arm, Methos indicated for the girl to set her burden on the table. Anaeia slowly set the table and laid out the food as Methos silently watched. The menservants laboriously filled the tub with steaming, hot water; thankfully, one man had the fortitude of mind to leave a bucket of hot water by the tub, and another was set close to the hearth to keep warm by the fire. With their task done, the men filed out, leaving Anaeia alone with the Eldest. Methos leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, watching his 'guest'. With her task done, Anaeia stood by the table, her eyes never leaving the floor. They remained that way, the uncomfortable silence stretching between them, the tension palpable. Finally, Methos pushed away from the wall and stalked towards the trembling girl. He stopped before her._

_ "Undress me." he commanded._

_ For a moment, the Ancient One thought the girl would refuse when her golden gaze met his in quiet defiance. The subtle narrowing of the Horseman's eyes warned the maid to tread lightly; Anaeia lowered hers in defeat and woodenly did as told. With some effort, the girl pulled Methos' boots off; it was not long before the Horseman stood naked, for all he wore was a simple linen shirt and breeches. Anaeia was smarter than most serving wenches; when Methos sank into the hot water, she picked up a clean, soft rag and a bar of hand milled soap. Anaeia knew better than to speak unless spoken to, for Methos did not want conversation. The Ancient One stifled his sigh of contentment as her fingers massaged the perfumed soap into his hair. The fragrance of sandalwood and sweet almond hung heavy in the air; it was a pleasant and welcome change from the harsh lye soap the Knights would use – when they bothered to bathe. And, Methos thought, there is nothing like having a beautiful woman bathe him._

_ Methos waited as Anaeia dragged a chair over so she could stand on it before he rose from the dirty water. It was with some effort that the serving girl hoisted the bucket of clean water high enough to rinse the Immortal off. . Though Anaeia studiously avoided looking at Methos' aroused member, the Eldest did see when she stole glances at him. The Ancient One noticed how her previously pale face was now flushed - from the activity . . . or perhaps from something else? So, the frightened rabbit wasn't as indifferent as the Horseman initially thought. Anaeia's hands lingered as she ran the drying cloth over the Ancient's body. Beneath her work-roughened fingertips, the serving maid felt the Immortal's lean muscles - sculpted from centuries of wielding a sword and wearing heavy armor. When he was dressed in a fresh linen shirt and clean breeches, Methos sprawled in a chair and looked at the maid. He certainly did not wish to look at a bedraggled woman as he ate. _

_ "Your turn. And wash your hair." He instructed her._

_ Surprised, Anaeia hesitated. A dark frown from the Master-At-Arms urged her to quickly comply. In truth, though she was reluctant to strip naked before her handsome captor (for in truth she was a prisoner without walls); the serving wench was actually eager for a bath – even better, the water, though not terribly filthy, was still lukewarm. After another long, hard day in the kitchens, Anaeia was looking forward to using the heavenly scented soap reserved for the Queen and her Ladies; it was much better than the sand that she normally used. While Methos watched the girl bathe, a plan formed in his mind. As a servant, Anaeia, no doubt, was allowed access to most parts of the castle. She could be of valuable use to him. When Anaeia stepped out of the tub, Methos rose to his feet and wrapped the girl in the drying cloth he previously used. When the serving maid reached for her shift, the Immortal took it from her and deliberately tossed it to the floor, and the drying cloth followed shortly. Holding his hand out, Methos watched Anaeia's flushed face pale again. Swallowing hard, Anaeia placed her trembling hand in the Immortal's. Leading the naked girl to the table. Methos grasped a chair and pulled it out._

_ "Sit." He commanded her. _

_ Anaeia did as told, though she perched on the edge of the chair, looking ready to bolt. Methos smiled, amused. She would not get far without her clothes. He reached for the covered clay platters, wondering how the slight chit managed to carry the heavy hamper all the way from the kitchens. He uncovered a roasted and stuffed goose, along with thick lentil porridge, heavily flavored with pork, a head cheese, meant to be eaten with the loaf of white bread; the loaf had odd little holes in the crust, where the baker had chipped off the little burnt parts it acquired in the baking process. The Horseman's eyebrows raised; because of the time consuming and laborious task of grading the flour, only the nobility and the King ate white bread, while the more nutritious dark bread was reserved for the lower classes. Several luscious plums rounded out their meal. Methos piled their plates high with food and poured a healthy amount of beer into their tankards before taking his own seat. Picking up his copper spoon, the Immortal hesitated when he noticed the girl remained seated with her head bowed. Stifling a sigh of annoyance, Methos spoke._

_ "Eat." He said. _

_ Obediently, the serving maid did as told. As they ate in silence, the Eldest studied the child before him. Though Anaeia ate steadily, she did so daintily. As they dined, still Anaeia refused to look directly at him. _

_ "Look at me." Methos said. _

_ He wished to see her golden eyes again, but without fear. Anaeia's eyes slowly rose to his. Methos lifted his tankard, and his reluctant dinner guest followed suit. After they had eaten and drunk, he was pleased to see the girl no longer looked like she was going to her execution – thanks in part to the beer he plied her with - enough to lower her inhibitions, but not enough for her to fall asleep, for he intended to get his silver's worth. Methos studied her appraisingly before he stood abruptly. _

_ "How many winters have you seen, Anaeia?" the Immortal asked brusquely. With her hair still wet from her bath, the serving maid looked younger and smaller. . . fragile._

_ "Not quite four and twenty, S-sir Methos." She replied; her soft voice was barely above a whisper._

_ Satisfied, Methos walked to her side of the table and held his hand out once again, noting the way Anaeia's breathing quickened. The Horseman felt a grudging sense of admiration for the girl; though she was powerless to prevent the inevitable, Anaeia faced it with quiet courage. Taking her hand firmly in his, Methos led Anaeia to his bed . . . At first, she had lain on the bed as stiff as a board. Normally, he would have merely taken his pleasure and be done with her; perhaps it was his way of atoning for his earlier shabby treatment of her. Whatever the reason, it was with gentle consideration he had not shown a woman since becoming a Horseman, that Methos made love to Anaeia, and when she reached for him with unbridled passion and desire, he knew his plan would work. _

_#_

_ Though their relationship began in a less than chivalrous manner, the Master-At-Arms proved to be a skilled and thoughtful lover. Anaeia lay contentedly in her lover's arms. Along with the other serving wenches, and some kitchen boys, Anaeia had sighed over Sir Methos' handsome face and lean physique from afar. Unfortunately, the high regard turned to fear and disenchantment, when the very same man she secretly admired dragged her to the dark corner. When he was about to take her against the wall, the serving maid could not believe he was about to commit such a horrid dee__d__. To her great relief, her whispered plea reached the Master-At-Arms, and he checked himself. However, Anaeia's fragile hope to be saved from the debasing act was dashed to pieces, when Sir Methos whispered a threat into her ear after humiliating her further. The girl had no choice but to comply – who would intervene? There was no one to intercede on her behalf, for the other Knights and Masters-At-Arms were long gone. _

_ If she chose to leave the castle, Anaeia knew she would never last on the roads; she would surely fall prey to the robbers plaguing the roads. The Knights had cleared the worst of the knaves, but it was a risk she was not willing to take. It would be better for her to submit to the Master-At-Arms. Relatively new to King Arthur's court, presently Anaeia called none 'friend', save the ill-tempered Cook, who, for reasons unknown, took the orphaned girl under his wing. Though he worked her hard, he was fair, and always slipped her a slice of white bread (buttered, even!), a portion of roast meat from the King's own plate, or a glass of fresh buttermilk. When Anaeia whispered to Cook what the Horseman had requested, he had simply winked and smiled; perhaps he would not have done so if she had included every sordid detail. The serving wench's bile rose as she set about preparing for an evening of further shame and debasement. However, the following events could not have surprised her more; Sir Methos' initial treatment, though brusque at first, gentled so by sunrise, Anaeia reluctantly to left his bed. _

_It was often whispered amongst the Knights that the handsome Master-At-Arms' skill with the sword is uncanny – that he may be able to best the King's Champion. Whenever there was opportunity to manipulate Sir Methos into a Challenge, the Man-At-Arms managed to slip thru the verbal nets set to ensnare him. It was also widely speculated as to why he did not swear fealty to the King, for Sir Methos would make a fine Knight of the Round Table. Anaeia did not care to solve the mystery surrounding the man she willingly gave herself to; nor did she wish to risk losing his attentions by delving too deeply into a past of which he never spoke. What Anaeia did know, was that Sir Methos loved beer. Unlike most men, her Master-At-Arms was able drink astonishing amounts of the fermented drink before his thinking became noticeably impaired. Better yet, it never affected his skill between the sheets; the lesser Knights loved to carouse with the Master-At-Arms, for no one had yet been able to best Sir Methos in a drinking contest. _

_ Curiously, no one knew from whence Sir Methos hailed - not his surname, pedigree, or even his age; none had the courage to ask, including Anaeia. She tasted first hand a slight touch of the violence Sir Methos was capable of, as well as the tender, chivalrous side of him. . In his arms, Anaeia forgot she was merely a serving wench, for Sir Methos treated her as if she were a Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen herself; he occasionally gifted her with tokens of his affection: a pretty ribbon, a new ruffled cap for her hair, a linen shift - simple gifts put to use. The serving wench was grateful she and the Master-At-Arms became lovers. No longer did the lesser Knights, the stable hands - nor any man for that matter paw at her. Usually, after he made_ _love to Anaeia, Methos would tell her stories of his travels until she fell asleep; the Master-At-Arms would wake her an hour or two after, then they would part, until their next tryst. Tonight he did not. Her lover was unusually quiet. After timidly asking her lover what troubled him, Methos surprisingly answered. It was with great relief Anaeia learned all her lover wished to know, is where the King's Friend stayed when at court. That was easy, for Anaeia often had to pass by the Advisor's keep as she carried out her duties within and without the castle. Glad to repay her lover for his kindness toward her, Anaeia told Methos where the Old Man's rooms were. Methos grinned. The knowledge pleased the Horseman greatly, for he made love to Anaeia again with a passion that left her with a smile on her face for two days after. _

_ "Hiding in plain site – I know exactly where you are now, old man!" the Ancient One crowed to himself._

_ Methos now had cause for celebration. Returning from another tryst with Anaeia, he accepted the invitation from his roommates to go a-whoring. By the time Methos was on his third tankard of ale, the Ancient One was feeling no pain, and decided the buxom tavern wench was much to his liking. Never mind the fact he did not know her name. He did not need her name for what he wanted her to do. Outside, under cover of darkness, between the horses tethered at the post, the Immortal pushed the tavern wench to her knees and freed his erect member. Methos' head fell back when he felt the warmth of her lips around his shaft, groaning aloud as her tongue danced its way up and down his length. Knocking her cap askew, hands buried in her greasy hair, the Immortal thrust his hips forward, forcing her to take his full length down her throat. Methos' breath left his lungs in a low hiss while the woman's head bobbed rhythmically as she expertly brought the Immortal close to his release. Before he could spill his essence into her mouth, Methos pulled his throbbing erection free as the woman rose and positioned herself against the post; with her skirts raised to her waist and her legs spread wide, the wench eagerly presented herself to the Ancient One. Throwing her skirts over her head, the Immortal gave the tavern wench's bare buttocks a stinging slap, before he savagely thrust his hard shaft forward, burying himself in her hot, slick warmth. The neighing and chuffing of the horses when they smelled the raw, musky scent of sex in the air masked the sound of the couple's frenzied rutting and subsequent release. Taking a moment to catch his breath, the Ancient One pulled his spent member from the tavern wench's folds. Gathering a handful of the woman's skirt, Methos wiped his now flaccid shaft clean and tucked it back inside his breeches. He walked back inside the tavern, not bothering to see if the wench followed. After his fifth tankard of beer, a plan came to the Immortal. Unfortunately, so did a vivid image of the old man's face. Methos decided his waning courage required fortification with more beer. _

_ After his seventh tankard of beer, long after his companions staggered back to their quarters, Methos found himself standing before the doors to the Charlatan's keep with a belly full of liquid courage - that needed release. Fumbling with the ties of his breeches, the Immortal pulled out his phallus, and with a sigh of contentment, relieved himself. The sound of Methos' urine splashing against the stones made the serving wench with the impressive tongue skills giggle. Methos shook his member before tucking himself back into his breeches, then set about gaining entry. With his third attempt, the Immortal managed to grasp the iron pull. The heavy door swung open with a soft creak; Methos stood in the vaulted doorway, taking a moment to study the interior. To the left a shadowed stairway led upwards to parts unknown; the Master-at-Arms half expected a Raven to caw, or fly into his face. Stumbling further into the room, the Immortal pulled the wench after him and carefully shut the door with a bang. The first thing the drunken couple noticed was the myriad of colors on the shadowed and otherwise austere walls. Seeking its source, on a long wooden worktables they spied the many racks of phials filled with mysterious liquids in jeweled tones. Beside the rack of phials, were metallic contraptions that held more fat bellied phials bubbling softly over thick, stubby candles. Tomes and ledges of all sizes and thickness lined the shelves against the walls; scattered everywhere were scrolls and stacks of parchment; jars filled with dried plants and herbs neatly labeled lined another shelf. The wide brimmed hat with its crooked point rested on a corner of a large desk. A quick glance upward showed the high domed ceiling to be made entirely of glass with graceful whorls etched deeply into the surface. In the midnight sky, the new moon shone brightly; together, the drunken couple continued their exploration of the room. The Immortal was about to climb the stairs when he looked over his shoulder to see where his companion was. Drawn to the pretty colors, the tavern wench touched the walls, watching as her skin turned blue and then red._

_ "Soooo pretty . . . !" the wench drunkenly slurred._

_The lit candles on the worktable made the colored liquids in the glass phials glitter like jewels. As the tavern maid oooh'd and aah'd over the prismatic hues, Methos' forgot he wanted to go upstairs when a twinkle of light captured his attention. The Immortal's sloshed gaze was drawn to the table on the raised dais, where the full moon's beams highlighted the small object on its surface. Lurching in the direction of the table, the Immortal wandered closer to see what glittered brightly. _

_ "Whasshal this?" the Ancient One asked himself, peering at the floor._

_ Gold, green and bronze sand shimmered on the stone floor in a detailed, intricate pattern; however, the object of the Immortal's interest was more interesting by far. Upon the table, lay a Leaf; its rich, emerald hues contrasted nicely with the silver vine wrapped around the Leaf. Unmindful of the gleaming sand, Methos lifted a booted foot; the Immortal was about to take a step towards his goal, when suddenly a tremendous crash came from the direction of the entryway. The Advisor strode into the room, brandishing his white staff like a sword. As for the sword, much to the Immortal's relief, it remained sheathed in its scabbard at the old man's hip. With a fierce scowl, the King's Friend addressed the woman briefly before making his way toward the dais._

_ "Leave us!" the Advisor commanded. _

_ Picking up her skirts, the tavern wench fled without so much as a backward glance at the Immortal. When she darted thru the open doorway, the Ancient's eyes widened as the heavy door slammed shut of its own accord. A quick glance over his shoulder showed the Advisor to be engrossed in his inspection of the sand circle. Methos decided it would be wise to emulate the tavern girl's example and remove his as well. Slowly, so as not to draw attention to him, the Immortal began to sidle - as quietly as his inebriated state would allow, towards the door. When his hand grasped the iron ring, the Immortal sighed in relief, certain the Advisor would not know who it was that trespassed. After all, it was dark. Unfortunately, the door would not budge. Pulling with all his might, Methos was unsuccessful. Lifting a booted foot and bracing it against the wall, Methos pulled yet again; it was an exercise in futility, for the door had been magically sealed. The Advisor's next words chilled the Immortal to the bone._

_ "I will have your head for this." The old man said sotto voce._

_ Methos drew his sword and spun around, only to stare down the length of the Advisor's sword leveled at his throat. If this was how things would end, the Immortal wished to die well - with his sword in his hand. The Ancient One was unaccustomed to finding himself in such a vulnerable position and now felt the same terror he dealt others without pause. It was quite disconcerting. The Ancient One's eyes were drawn to the sword's blood groove as every cruel act and dastardly deed he had committed flashed before his eyes. _

So this is what it feels like to look down the wrong end of a sword. _Methos thought to himself, swallowing hard._

_ "Who are you?" the old man asked thru narrowed eyes. Up close, Methos thought the Advisor did not look so old, but very commanding. _

_ "No one special. . . Sir." The Ancient One managed to choke out. His throat was suddenly very, very dry. _

_ "What do you call yourself?" The Advisor asked softly. The Immortal hesitated, wondering if he could get away with giving the King's Friend another's name._

_ "Speak quickly!" the Advisor encouraged as the tip of the sword nicked his Adam's apple. The Ancient wet his lips and decided it would behoove him to speak the truth._

_ "M-Methos, Sir." The Ancient One answered, trying to keep the fear from his voice. _

_ After several tense moments, the sword left Methos' throat to disappear into its scabbard as the old man backed away. With an audible sigh of relief, Methos straightened. _

_ "Your stupidity knows no bounds – your witless actions nigh ruined months of hard work! Do not think this insult will go unanswered." The old man promised the Immortal with a menacing scowl._

_ The King's Advisor deliberately turned his back on the Immortal as he made his way back to the dais, quite unconcerned with the fact the Horseman still clutched his sword. The swirls on the Advisor's robes glowed brightly in the moonlight as the old man raised his arms. _

_ "Be gone with you!" The old man said, dismissing the Immortal with a quick flick of his wrist._

How dare he_! Methos seethed inwardly._

_ For a brief moment, the Immortal slipped back into his persona of Death, the fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse. Taking a step towards the Advisor, Methos hesitated when he felt the sudden draft from behind. Turning, Methos' jaw dropped, for the swirls that graced the robes of the Advisor and the domed ceiling - were now glowing before him above the doorposts – the heavy door was now wide open._

_ "Impossible!" the Immortal whispered to himself_.

_Suddenly, he did not feel quite so drunk. Sheathing his sword, the Ancient One wasted no time lurching thru the doorway; the Immortal's unsteady steps quickened when he heard the door slam loudly behind him. Staggering into his quarters, Methos collapsed onto his straw filled mattress and lay wide-awake, listening to the snores of his roommates; cursing softly, the indelible image of the King's Advisor remained in his mind's eye before he passed out. The next day, not only did Methos awaken with an excruciating headache, his bone dry mouth felt like something crawled in and died, leaving his tongue feeling coated and thick; had he been able to, the smell of his own breath would have knocked him out again. Thirstily gulping down watered wine, it comforted the Immortal to know the other occupants of the room were suffering as well; no one spoke, and all moved about quietly, cradling their aching heads with one hand as they used their chamber pots. The knock on the door had the effect of a battering ram, as the men's clutched their aching heads. The Ancient One winced when the door was flung open to admit a court squire. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the morning light, Methos tried not to moan as the boy loudly announced the King wished an audience with Sir Methos, Master-at-Arms. The Ancient One groaned, for the summons would not give the Immortal a chance to nurse his aching head. Wearing the same trousers, Methos did at least change his outer tunic. Pale and slightly disheveled, Methos presented himself to the King. _

_ "Sir Methos." The monarch addressed the Master-At-Arms before him._

_The Immortal did his best to not wince, for the King's voice seemed to echo off the stones and reverberate thru his head. In fact, the Immortal's sense of hearing felt magnified tenfold – he could hear every rustle of the Ladies' silk skirts as they moved about, every whisper was a shout, and the creak of leather and clang of metal was sheer agony. Methos was convinced it was the witch work of the damned old man in retaliation. _

_ "Yes, my Lord." Methos answered, doing his best to appear properly attentive._

_ "You have served this court well." The King said._

_ "It has been my honor, my Lord." The Immortal intoned, keeping his head low; while it projected respect, much to the Ancient One's relief, he found the position actually helped his headache slightly._

_ "Your prowess is unchallenged on the field, and your chivalrous deeds speak well of you." Arthur Pendragon continued._

_ "Thank you, my Lord." Methos automatically replied, wishing the King chosen another day in which to compliment him so highly. _

_ ". . . so well that your services are needed elsewhere." King Arthur said, speaking louder as he addressed the court in general._

_ "'Elsewhere', your Highness . . . ?"Methos ventured, remembering the rumors amongst the Knights that the King was raising his army in preparation of yet another Crusade; the Horseman did not think he would like what the King would say next. _

_ "My most trusted Advisor is in need of an Acolyte. I considered at great length, whom best to fill this need. I was at my wits' end, when your name was given. 'Twas an excellent suggestion; who else would have the temperance and skill worthy, but you?"_

_ "My Lord, may I ask by whom?" the Immortal inquired, though he had a good idea._

_ Methos normally would not question the King; however, the Immortal was not feeling normal, nor was he happy. Arthur Pendragon smiled at the Master-At-Arms and continued as if the Immortal hadn't spoken. By the King's words, the Ancient One was fairly certain word of his late night visit to the wizard's keep did not reach the Monarch's ears, else his liege would have mentioned it or summoned him to a private audience. Methos knew his change in assignment was to make amends for the alleged near disaster._

_"You will report to my Advisor's keep, for I release you from your duties as Master-At-Arms whilst you serve him." Arthur said. _

_ Seeing the dismayed expression on the man's face, the King took pity on him, for he could see Methos was not exactly overjoyed. Secretly, the Monarch sympathized with his subject; it must be difficult for a man of war to be so confined. _

_ "Do not be troubled, Sir Methos; 'tis no shame in this, and 'twill be but temporary – the glories of battle can wait until a suitable Apprentice can be found; and of course, you may still participate in the Tournaments . . . if your Master so agrees. In the meantime, mayhap you both will benefit from this arrangement. What say you, good man?"_

_ "As you wish, your Highness." Methos heard himself say. _

_ "Excellent, Sir Methos." The King beamed with joy._

_ For the Immortal, what began as a bad day just got worse; and his sudden change of fortune just made his head ache all the more. The Ancient One wished the King would grant him his leave, so he could return to his quarters and lie down until his head felt better. Then he would allow Anaeia to console him with beer. Or maybe not - because of his drinking, the Immortal found himself in his current situation. _

From hence I will exercise caution when I drink. _Methos vowed. _

_ "Merlin!" the King called. _

'Merlin'. So, the old man has a name after all_. Methos thought. _

_After a moment, the Counselor appeared at the King's side. Had Methos been closer, he would have seen the mischievous glint in the Advisor's blue-grey eyes. Instead, the Immortal briefly glanced at the Mage and closed his eyes. All he wished to do was lie down and wait for his raging headache to calm, but that was not to be._

_ "Come, Sir Methos; there is much work to be done." Merlin said._

_ With a nod to his Master-At-Arms, Arthur Pendragon granted the Immortal his leave. Head held high and spine straight, Methos tried to ignore the fact that all eyes were upon him as he turned and stiffly followed the Wizard._

#

_Despite his best efforts, Methos never quite managed to walk beside the Conjurer to give the impression of equality. At six feet in height, the Immortal's strides were long, yet no matter how fast Methos walked, Merlin was always just ahead of him as the Wizard led the way. Inside his keep, the Ancient One looked about, wondering what the place looked like in the cold light of day; it remained the same, minus its intimidating air. _

_ "This is your doing." The Immortal accused ._

_ "As I said before, your insult will not go unanswered. You will make amends for your idiotic actions of the even before." Merlin said calmly, meeting the Ancient One's haughty glare with a stern one of his own before he turned away. Whatever Merlin was preparing was of so great importance, that a heartfelt, sincere apology did not provide the Wizard satisfaction for the 'near disaster'. _

_ "I will do what I must." Methos answered icily._

_ "You always do, Thanatos." The Wizard muttered softly. _

_ "Pardon, Sir?" The Ancient One asked. The Immortal's Master hid his amusement behind the stern countenance once more as he faced the Immortal._

_ "Proceed with caution, Sir, Methos. If I choose, I may be merciful, or . . ." the Wanderer let the threat hang in the air._

_"Or what?" Methos challenged; he certainly did not enjoy being treated as a squire._

_ "Or I could have your head on a silver charger. Make no mistake, Sir Methos. _I_ am the Master in this Keep, and you _will_ suffer me." The Mage replied._

_Chafing under the imposition of another's will, with great reluctance Methos took up his new duties. Merlin had his Acolyte perform the most menial of chores. Methos would often wait until the very last minute to set about his work, making it appear he chose to do as told, not because he was under another's authority; he was not allowed to consider a task complete, until the Seer thoroughly inspected his work and granted the Immortal his leave. Methos wondered what task or chore the old man could possibly come up with next to weary him, convinced the Seer was determined to literally work him to death. Every day brought a new set of challenges – all geared towards teaching the Ancient One humility, and the virtue of patience. In times past, the Ancient One hauled his screaming captives back to camp as spoils of war, where the frightened, sobbing women were to be shared amongst the Horsemen. Now Methos hauled buckets full of water from the well to wash dirty tools, utensils and other trappings the Wizard used in his 'studies'. Methos went from striking fear in mortal men's hearts to striking dusty cobwebs and pigeon droppings from the highest rafters of Merlin's tower, whilst precariously balanced on a rickety ladder. The Immortal grudgingly admitted the frighteningly unstable contraption did wonders - improving his balance and reaction time; Methos only fell to his death twice - thankfully, the Wizard was not present to see him revive both times. _

_ Death swept across the lands mercilessly, swift and certain. Now Death quickly swept dust-bunnies from corners and behind bookshelves; instead of beating men to death, the Immortal beat the dust from the Wizard's tapestries and laundry. Methos went from cleaning his sword whetted with the blood of Innocents to cleaning the stone floors (on his knees no less), of the Keep - from the tower to the stairwell, the main rooms to the basement, the Immortal scoured and mopped away the dirt until Merlin was satisfied. War, Famine and Pestilence – the Horseman's fell brothers would have been horrified to know Death, who emptied purses and coffers as they pillaged and plundered villages, now emptied the Mage's chamber pot – from savagely tearing wailing babes from their screaming mothers' arms, to savagely ripping weeds from the Conjurer's herb garden. _

_ Methos could not say exactly when his labors ceased to rankle; what the Immortal found most surprising, was he actually began to enjoy his tasks, and looked forward to returning to the Keep the following day. Often, the Advisor looked up from his labors, in time to catch his Aide watching him with keen interest; the King's friend noted how his assistant never seemed finish sweeping the same spot, when he carefully poured the jeweled-hued liquids from one phial to another, and set it over the flame of the candles. The days turned into months, the months into a year; the Immortal and the Wizard reached an understanding that evolved into a surprising friendship. The old man would leave for days, weeks, even months at a time. Though Merlin would inform his Acolyte when, and the length of time he expected to be away; he did not tell the Immortal where he was going, or the purpose for his trip. When the Wizard returned, the old man always looked weary and drained, and never spoke of his wanderings. _

_ It was during one such absence, while dusting the bookshelves, a particularly large book fell from the shelves to land on the stone floors with its pages open. Stooping to pick it up, the Ancient One thumbed thru the pages. The Ancient One lived before Mankind learned to write, witnessing first hand, the progression of primitive stick figures on cave walls progress to the hieroglyphics of Egypt, and the flowing script of the desert nomads. The book he held contained ordered writings such as he had never seen before - pictures drawn with meticulous detail upon the pages. One such was of a Leaf exactly like that he had seen on the table moons ago. Other pages held illustrations of a pillar; a round object draped with a cloth, and fair beings with pointed ears and flowing hair, the folios filled with depictions of strange, fierce and wondrous creatures. Frowning thoughtfully, the Immortal closed the book and recognized the elegant swirls embossed into the leather bound tome. . . that were embroidered on the Mage's robes . . . that were etched high above him, upon the glass dome of the Keep's observatory. Not long after, Merlin returned, looking both exceptionally weary and pleased as he made his way to the worktable. Carefully placing his worn rucksack on the table, the Wizard gratefully watched as his Acolyte placed a heel of day old bread before him with a wedge of cheese and beer, before resuming his chore. Looking about the Keep, the Mage concentrated . . . and with a quiet chuckle, nodded to himself; other than his Acolyte's multiple unsuccessful attempts to gain entry into his private chambers, nothing was amiss - all was as he left it._

_While he worked, Methos told the King's Friend of the latest news of the court. As Merlin ate, the Seer thoughtfully studied his Assistant. Gone was the man who challenged the Wizard at every turn, and carried out his tasks with disdain thinly veiled, and a rage barely contained. With every task finished, the hidden lesson learned, there is now a certain . . .contentment bordering on peace that emanated from Sir Methos. Before, the Ancient One would arrive late at Merlin's Keep; now he arrived before expected, and lingered long after the Seer had granted him his leave for the day. As expected, over time, the Master-At-Arms proved himself to be quick of mind and shrewd of intelligence. Once the figurative head of the Horsemen, Methos was by no means a simple man - he was the mastermind and planner behind their heinous deeds; often, the Immortal would pause to study the spines of the leather bound tomes lining the Wizard's shelves. The Ancient One would observe the old Wanderer as he labored at the worktable – even daring to ask a question or two. Brushing the crumbs from his hands, the Wizard drained his tankard of beer. The time had come; now Merlin sought to slake within his Acolyte, the thirst for knowledge the Advisor knew existed within the complex man. _

_ "Methos, kindly fetch me the tome on my desk." The Master requested. _

_ Methos retrieved the requested book and returned to his sweeping, watching as the Wizard measured out different liquids into a flask and set it above a candle. The rhythmic scrape of the broom's stiff bristles ceased as the Immortal stopped his task and watched in fascination as the clear liquid became a bright flame red, and then turned to blue. Merlin added a pinch of something; the moment it touched the water, purple tendrils fanned outwards until the entire contents of the flask became a vibrant hyacinth color. Poring over the pages, the Advisor did not look up as he added another pinch of something powdered, and the liquid gradually took on a deep, golden hue._

_"What are you making?" Methos found himself asking. _

_ "The world has changed; much that once was, is lost. True magic is fading from the world of men, Methos; none now live who remember it. We must harness the latent magic that still exists in nature, and give it a little extra 'help'. To answer your question, I am making a decoction." Merlin replied, looking up from his reading with a twinkle in his eye._

_ "What kind?" Methos asked, as he propped his broom handle against the table and leaned against the edge of the worktable. The Horseman peered curiously at the text the Mage was reading, but could not decipher the symbols. _

_ "A very special kind. When the liquid reduces, all that will remain, is a powder that causes the recipient to enter a . . . changed state of being." The Advisor said._

_ "What do you mean by 'changed'?" the Ancient asked curiously._

_"I was just getting to that, old boy." The Wizard replied. "Contingent upon the amount given, of course, 'twill induce One to enter a very, very deep sleep. Unless all involved know the nature of this powder, care must be used when giving it; if a large enough dose is given, 'twill cause the person to enter such an altered state, that it mimics death - to all outward appearances, the person looks and feels dead."_

_ "How will it do this?" Methos asked skeptically as he eyed the simmering liquid._

_ "If swallowed, 'twill take longer to act; if breathed in, the effects 'twill be much faster - " Merlin began._

_ "Why would you want to do that?" Methos asked, watching in fascination as the thickening liquid began to slowly bubble._

_ "Well, 'tis useful in battle, or when in the throes of a fever dream. It saves the body from overtaxing its resources, allowing the sufferer to rest until more . . . aggressive measures can be taken."_

_ "I see. . .is there an antidote? " Methos replied; the possible uses of the powder could be very useful; and, depending on the intention, very dangerous._

_ "Time. Its effects will fade depending on the amount received, how healthy the person who received it is, as well as the nature and extent of the injury." Merlin answered, studying his Acolyte with a cryptic smile on his face; he could almost see the possibilities Methos was considering, for the soon to be powder._

_ "Tell me, Methos . . . do you know how to read and write?" Merlin inquired as he walked to the bookshelf._

_ "Yes, I do." The Immortal replied with a sense of pride. Of all the Horsemen, he alone was fully literate. The Wizard studied his Acolyte with amusement and approval._

_ "Well, then; 'tis good you are, for I need this text replicated in exact detail." The Seer informed Methos._

_ The Augerer pulled from his bookshelf the very tome that Methos had briefly thumbed through during his Master's absence. From atop his desk, the old man removed another leather bound ledger filled with blank parchment. From a drawer, the Magus removed a pot of ink, a blotter, and a handful of sharpened quills._

_"Your next task, dear boy, will be to copy this book. Not one jot or tittle is to be altered or omitted. 'Tis of the utmost importance; upon completion, your next task will be to translate it into our Queen's English." The Wizard instructed the Immortal solemnly. _

_ "What am I transcribing?" the Ancient One asked._

_ "This publication is a true and faithful account of an Age long gone – the history of a culture that did indeed exist at one point in time." _

_ "What culture do you speak of?" the Immortal asked; perhaps he would be able to provide accurate details, for he had been keeping journals since before writing began._

_ "The Elven culture." Merlin replied._

_ "Elven culture?" Methos echoed; the Advisor enjoyed the confusion that settled onto his Acolyte's patrician features._

_ "I believe I did already say that, old boy." The Wanderer answered. _

_ "Elves do not exist, Merlin - by the stars above, next you will tell me that trolls and fire breathing dragons exist as well!" the Ancient One scoffed with a reproachful look at his Master. _

_ The Immortal had been around since the Egyptian civilization came into existence; during his extensive travels, the Eldest had never heard of - much less encountered – Elves, until he arrived in England. 'Elves' were purported to be whimsical creatures; some said they were tall and lived under the ground, others claimed they were short, grotesque creatures that lived in the trees. Either way, the fabled creatures existed only in fanciful tales spun by mothers to tell their wide-eyed children before bedtime by the light of a warm, cozy fire. _

_ "Ah, but they did, Methos. Is that so very hard to believe?" the Seer inquired with a bland smile on his face._

_ "'Tis a bit of a stretch, Merlin. Even for you." The Ancient One said._

_ "Well, then. Before you set quill to parchment, perhaps I should begin at the beginning." Merlin replied, sitting at his desk._

_The conjurer motioned for the Immortal to have a seat. As the Ancient One sprawled in a chair, the Advisor reached within his rucksack and withdrew its contents, which happened to be a large globe. As large as child's ball, it was pure black in color._

_ "What is that?" Methos asked._

_ "'Tis called a 'Seeing Stone', amongst other things. Now, I will begin. I have had many names . . ." Merlin intoned. _

Not another outrageous tale! _The Immortal breathed to himself. _

_ Methos' eyes glazed over and the Immortal listened half-heartedly as Merlin began his tale; the Eldest gave the outward appearance of attentiveness as his mind wandered briefly. _

_ " . . . the Grey Pilgrim. . . the White Wizard, ah – and my favorite: Mithrandir . . . " Merlin's smooth voice faded to the back of the Immortal's mind. _

I wonder what Anaeia will bring for supper tonight? _The Ancient One thought._ _There were definite benefits to having a serving wench for a lover, for Anaeia would often bring leftovers from the King's own table, and they would dine as the King himself. With a half smile on his lips, Methos turned his mind back to the Master's tale. _

_ " …but I digress. Now, where was I? Oh yes, yes. Not all that you see is as it was. Every now and then, you may catch but a glimpse, for much that once was, is no more - and some things that should not have been forgotten are lost. However, there are those who still keep the old ways alive." the Wizard continued._

_ The Wanderer was a gifted storyteller, and his voice washed over the Eldest like honey. Soon, the Immortal found himself entranced, watching the Mage's lips as they moved beneath the white beard, Methos felt a strange heaviness come over him. His senses felt both dulled and heightened at the same time; with a slight gesture, the Seer directed the Ancient One's gaze to the Stone; Methos felt compelled to look upon its blackness. Transfixed, the Immortal stared at its smooth surface, and felt a mild sense of wonder as the surface began to swirl. _

_ ". . . history became legend, and legend became myth, and the truth that was, is now but a story - distorted and sadly, forgotten. . . " Merlin intoned._

_"What is this . . . ?" The Immortal gasped to himself. _

_ Soon he was transported to a realm where fantastical creatures of legend and valiant heroes lived and breathed, fought and died. By the time the Wizard ceased to speak, the sun had sunk well beneath the horizon. _

_ "Methos? Methos!" Merlin called. Shaking his head, the Immortal looked at the Wizard with a start._

_ "I was there - I was really there!" The Ancient One exclaimed, half in wonder and half in disbelief._

_ "Nay, You saw but a glimpse; memories of what was. But perhaps one day. . .Now do you believe?" Merlin asked the Immortal with a twinkle in his eye._

_ "Aye, Merlin." Methos answered slowly._

_ "Good, for the hour grows late, and I believe you are expected elsewhere. Now, on the morrow, I will need for you to begin reproducing the publication straightaway."_

_ "Aye." The Immortal answered automatically. Methos rose and made his way to the door. After he returned from seeing Anaeia back to her humble quarters, the Immortal lay on his bed, thinking about his day. When he did finally fall asleep, his dreams were filled with wondrous images of the lands, peoples and creatures of the place Merlin called 'Middle-earth'. _

_#_

_Seated at the Wizard's desk, the Immortal diligently labored. Because of his fluency in both reading and writing hieroglyphics and the Babylonian tongue, Methos made rapid progress copying the Elvish words. Often, the Wizard would come and look over his Acolyte's shoulder and murmur in approval, or caution the man when his quill strokes were unsteady. It was during a quick break that an idea came to the Ancient One. Rubbing his weary eyes and unfolding his long legs, the Immortal stretched his tall frame and flexed his cramped hand as he took a moment to evaluate his work. Methos frowned, for he was not content to simply be an automaton. He wanted more. _

_ "Merlin!" the Immortal called. The Seer was working on yet another experiment at the table._

_ "Yes, Methos - what is it?" Merlin answered, looking over the rim of his glasses; he held in his hand a glass beaker and paused before adding the contents of the tube he held in his other hand to it._

_ "I have a request of you." The Immortal began._

_ "Oh?" the Wizard said._

_ "Would you consider teaching me Sandarin-?"_

_ "Sindarin?" Merlin corrected._

_ "Yes - since I am having quite a time copying it, I may as well learn to read and speak it, would you not agree?" Methos asked. Merlin carefully set down the beaker and tube as he thoughtfully studied his Acolyte; none walked the earth that could speak the noble tongue, save him. Before long, a wide grin broke out onto the whiskered face._

_ "I heartily agree!" The Master answered. Now the Wizard's burdened heart lifted slightly; through Methos, the Elves, their history and language would not pass from this existence. _

_ By the time the Immortal finished reproducing the flowing Elvish text for the Magus from cover to cover in its entirety, Methos could read, write and speak the Elvish language. The Wizard and his Acolyte spent their days practicing the inflections, conjugations, word, sentence structure and proper use of the lost tongue. Before long, the men were conversing entirely in Elvish, even as the Ancient One began the task of translating the tome into the Queen's English. One day, Methos found the Wizard standing in the observatory, looking out._

_ "What is the matter, Merlin?" The Immortal asked; he had not seen the Wizard so deep in contemplation since before he left on his most recent trip._

_ "'Tis nothing, Methos." Merlin replied wistfully as he turned towards his Acolyte. _

_ The Wanderer's bushy white brows rose questioningly when he took in the younger man's appearance. Around his waist, brushes were suspended from a belt, the design of which was the Immortal's own making. Pointing to the glass dome overhead, the Ancient One answered the unspoken question._

_ "I will clear the leaves, for they block the light." Methos answered._

_ "'Twill be an exercise in futility, given the unpredictable elements. Why not wait until the sun shines again?" Merlin suggested. The Ancient One failed to heed the warning in the Advisor's voice._

_ "Well, since you have not seen fit to cast a spell to prevent the leaves from clinging to the surface, I must do it the hard way; 'tis unsightly and a nuisance." Methos answered._

_ "Will you not reconsider, Methos?" Merlin asked once again. _

_ "Merlin, you worry as an old woman. I will be done with this before you can finish your cup of tea." The Ancient One replied, brushing off the Advisor's concern._

_ "Have a care, Methos." The Advisor sternly warned the Immortal, as he made his way up the stairwell._

_ Methos opened the side door of the tower allowing access to the glass dome. The wind came and went with bursts of chilly air that pulled at his clothes and mussed his hair; the Ancient One was glad he wore his heavy woolen jerkin. Stepping onto the glass, the Immortal carefully balanced himself on the slippery surface. It had rained the night before, and the water collected in the grooves of the etchings, making the already slick surface more treacherous. Sweeping away the leaves, Methos waved to the Wizard who was directly below him. _

Merlin seemed . . . sad._ The Immortal thought to himself, remembering the expression on the old man's face. _

_ "Nothing a good draught of beer can't fix." Methos mused aloud. _

_ The thought of his favored beverage brought a smile to the Immortal's face as he thought of his favorite serving wench. Anaeia had been a balm to him. Her warm, willing body and sweet innocence was something Methos found himself looking forward to of late. Even his time with the Wizard had been well spent. In hindsight, the Immortal was glad to find himself in his present situation._

_ "Sir Methos!" The Immortal looked around, searching for the one who called him._

_ "Whatever are you doing? Oh, do be careful!" Anaeia called from the ground below. _

_ "Anaeia – do you worry for me, my sweet?" Methos called down to her with an amused smile on his face. _

_ Standing up, the Immortal looked down at his lover with his hands on his hips; the wind picked up, and a strong gust pushed at the Ancient One. Though his footing remained firm, Methos wind milled his arms, eliciting a shriek of fright from the woman below. _

_ "Would you catch me if I fell, sweet Anaeia?" The Eldest inquired with a hearty laugh._

_ "You insufferable man! If you fell, you would deserve it!" the serving girl retorted after seeing Methos was well._

_ "Would you not miss me, love?" Methos inquired._

_ "If by your folly you fell and died, then nay. I would not - for I will be busy searching for another to share the gooseberry and mincemeat tarts, roast beef and mutton. Cook also sent a fresh loaf of bread and freshly churned butter with the surplus of buttermilk." Anaeia retorted, sufficiently recovered from her fright to sass her Master-At-Arms in return.._

_ "You will do no such thing, woman. I will come down straightaway and make you regret your hasty words." Methos threatened with a laugh._

_ As he carefully turned away, the Immortal spied a large clump of dead leaves and twigs plastered onto the dome's surface; located where the glass curved downward. Taking one of the long handled brushes, Methos squatted and leaned forward, bracing himself with his free hand as he reached to dislodge the dead vegetation._

_ "Oh, do be careful, Methos!" Anaeia called worriedly, wringing her hands in her apron as she anxiously watched her lover._

_ "Nothing to worry about, my pretty; I shall be dining with you shortly, then I will ease my full belly as I ravish your body until you beg for my leave." Methos laughingly promised. _

_ The words had no sooner left his mouth, as a sudden, strong gust of wind pushed the Immortal from behind. Unbalanced, he dropped the brush; Methos threw both hands down in an effort to catch himself; his palms skidded in the rainwater pooling in the etchings of the dome. Desperately scrabbling for purchase on the slick glass, Anaeia's agonized scream as Methos plummeted towards the ground below and the snapping of his neck was the last sounds the Immortal heard._

#

_Merlin sat quietly in his favorite chair, puffing away on his pipe. The smoke rose up and formed a ring before dissipating. . Another puff of smoke looked remarkably like a dragon. As the Wizard squinted, the wings spread out and the form shifted once more to become a boat, its graceful, swanlike bow cleaved through the imaginary water before vanishing away. On the Wizard's bed, the Ancient One opened his eyes, revived. Disoriented, Methos slowly sat up and groaned, massaging his aching neck. Little wonder he did not recognize his surroundings, for the Wizard always kept his bedchamber sealed. Despite his best efforts, the Immortal was unable to gain entry; now he knew the entrance was enchanted, with the Wizard only allowed access. In addition to an aching neck, Methos' head felt as if a horse had kicked him; the last one that did became dinner for the Horsemen. _

_ "Did I not tell you twice to wait until the weather was more agreeable? Stubborn man; now you will have to leave." Merlin said. The Immortal looked at the Wizard who was seated beside the bed. _

_ "What do you mean? I am fine, Merlin. See – nothing is broken." Methos lightly said._

_ Even as he spoke, the Immortal pulled the sleeves of his jerkin down to cover the bruises that would lighten and eventually fade; the deep aches told the Horseman his healing arms must have broken in his fall. When Methos slowly climbed to his feet, his hips felt uncommonly sore, a temporary reminder of his shattered pelvis. The Conjurer snorted in derision._

_ "I do not think Anaeia will believe that, Methos. The poor girl saw you fall forty feet . . .and your broken neck and arms. 'Twill be difficult explaining how you are fine after she unsuccessfully tried to stop your hard head from lolling about in a most unnatural manner." _

_ Merlin recalled the difficulty he had pulling away the hysterical woman as she held her lover's dead body in her arms. __Wizard and Immortal stared at each other solemnly. Word had spread and the whole castle knew of the Master-At-Arms' unfortunate demise. Methos stared at the man before him._

_ "How do you know -"_

_ "That you would rise from the dead? That you cannot be killed unless your head comes off your body?" The Wizard answered. Methos was speechless._

_ "You are not the only one who stands outside of time, Sir Methos." Merlin answered the Immortal._

_ "But how is it that I cannot sense you?" the Immortal pressed the Wizard._

_ "The gods that made you and me different, made me a little more . . . special." Merlin said with a chuckle. Methos frowned, turning the information over in his mind. _

_ "There are more pressing matters that require tending to, Methos. You must go now."_

_ "Can you not cast a spell that will turn back time?" Methos impulsively asked, finding that he very much wanted to have dinner with his Anaeia. _

_"Nay, Methos. Some things are meant to be." The Wizard sadly answered, wishing he could make it so; his Acolyte was the best thing that happened to the poor girl. The Immortal sighed heavily; Methos' only wish now, was that Anaeia would remember him with kindness. There was, however, one last thing he could do for her. _

_ "There is a purse I have filled with gold; 'tis hidden within the false bottom of my chamber pot . . . will you see Anaeia gets it?" The Ancient One quietly asked. The Advisor raised an eyebrow at the unconventional hiding place._

_ "And my horse, as well. . ." Methos added. Merlin nodded, watching his Acolyte climb slowly to his feet._

_#_

_ "This is my friend Shadowfax; he has agreed to bear you to your next destination." Merlin said as he handed the Immortal the reins to the shadowy grey horse. Methos looked at the Wizard in astonishment, who smiled in return._

_ "Your secret is safe with me. Now, as we both know, Shadowfax wears neither saddle nor bridle. But for your journey, he makes exception." Merlin replied with a smile. Deeply honored, the Ancient One did not know what to say. Turning to the horse, the Eldest bowed his head in deference and ventured to stroke the velvety nose._

_ "I am honored. Hannon le (thank you), Shadowfax." Methos said to the noble beast. _

_ Turning to the wizard, the Immortal studied him. When Methos decided to leave, he simply left. Lingering had never been his style, yet the Eldest wondered why it was suddenly difficult for him to just ride away as he had done countless times before. There is much to learn from the Old Wanderer, so many questions to ask, but it was not to be. Anaeia witnessed his death, and the Immortal must leave before he was discovered. _

_ "My thanks. . . for everything." The Immortal finally said before he swung into the saddle._

_ "Where will you go, my friend?" the Wizard asked._

_ "Oh, I don't know; it's a big world. I can go wherever I want; I have time to decide . . ." Methos replied with a wry grin. Clasping forearms in farewell, the Wizard reached up and handed the Immortal a small leather sachet._

_ "What is this?" Methos asked as he opened it._

_ "A bit of the suspending powder I made. Keep it safe and use it wisely." Merlin advised. Methos nodded and pulled the drawstrings closed before tucking it into his tunic pocket. Looking down at the King's Friend, the Immortal gave his Friend a tight smile as he pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his head; Shadowfax moved forward, eager to be on their way. Merlin watched as the shadows claimed horse and rider._

_ "Till we meet again." Merlin said aloud; sighing heavily, the Wizard peered into the darkness a while longer before he returned to his Keep._

_ Riding into the King's forest, Methos dismounted and carefully scouted the area. When the Immortal was sure he was alone, he made his way to the gnarled oak tree. Precious little moonlight was able to penetrate the thick canopy of leaves. Counting thirty paces northward, the Horseman's steps brought him to a great boulder covered with lichen and moss. Methos rolled it away; in the depression beneath the stone, the Ancient One unearthed his emergency stash of gold. Returning to his mount, horse and rider disappeared into the night. : : : :_

Methos looked at the Peredhil with a small smile playing about his lips. "Amin istimed su enna ya nae sinomet(I learned from One who was here)." The Immortal answered.


	28. Shadows of The Past

Spencer Manor

Northern England

Near-dawn

_Tick, tick, tick, tick . . . _

The Immortal listened to the monotonous cadence of the chronometer as it beat at half-second intervals. The sound was excessively loud in the quiet room. All was still inside the house, and – for the first time in three weeks, outside as well. Crossing his arms over his chest, he studied the full moon hanging low in the indigo sky, before shifting his timeless gaze to the sword propped against his desk. A separate room housed his collection of steel; after every Challenge won, the victor usually kept the defeated's weapon, and the Halcyon's sword collection had grown nicely over millennia. Some he gifted to his Students for their first weapon; the more unique, unusual swords he kept for himself. Caine's own preferred, much-used blade was gifted to him from his Teacher – and at this very moment, the Halcyon wished he could beat Methos black and blue with it. Caine stood and walked towards the large, picture window. Since the Ancient One's departure, Caine Spencer's sleeping pattern - amongst other more pleasant pursuits -was interrupted on a dismayingly regular basis, making the normally even-tempered Immortal quite irritable. Stifling another wave of annoyance, the Halcyon returned to his large, executive styled leather chair and sat down.

Caine appreciated anew what he had previously taken for granted – anonymity, such as it was, within the Immortal community. With the Highlander and the Eldest out of town - much to the Halcyon's great displeasure, his pleasantly predictable life had literally been turned upside down; the Spencers' relatively peaceful existence had been disturbed with exasperating, maddening frequency. Immortals, eager to test their skills, skulked about, drawn to the stately Manor by the Second One's presence and the chance for an incredible Quickening. After every Quickening received, the Halcyon appreciated life all the more. With a low growl of frustration, the Immortal flipped open his mobile phone and hit the speed dial once again.

_ "The number you have reached is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try again." _The digitized voice repeated the same message he'd heard once too often.

"Damn it, Adam – you were supposed to be back by now!" the Immortal groused to himself.

The Halcyon tried all the contact numbers the Eldest had given him, but with the same result – that damned, standardized response. Yawning, Caine rubbed his eyes in frustration before punching the 'end' button on his mobile phone. Tossing it onto the desk, he cradled his face in his hands and mentally ran through his contact list, wondering if he'd misdialed or memorized the incorrect numbers; Caine picked up his mobile phone again, about to enter another number, when he paused and reached out with his senses . . . searching. It was a valuable aspect of the Buzz that Methos taught him three thousand years ago, and constantly tested him with its use, until it was automatic. If he so desired, with a twinkle of thought, the Second One could locate another Immortal's physical proximity- give or take a few meters. He was in the process of teaching Meredith the useful component of their internal alarm. The Elder took comfort in his wife's presence when he located her in the house. Closing his eyes, the Halcyon leaned his head back, relaxed in his chair, and listened to the chronometer continue to mark time's passing with its steady rhythm. Before long, the Immortal began to doze off, the mobile phone forgotten in his hand. Suddenly, Caine's chair was pulled back, swiveled around, and a familiar weight settled onto his lap.

"Darling, you were gone when I woke up," the smoky voice whispered the gentle remonstration.

"My most abject apologies, my lady." Caine gallantly murmured in reply; he tilted his head back to better look at the speaker.

Running his hand through her soft, sleep-tousled hair, the Halcyon studied his wife's eyes; her cornflower blue eyes were luminescent in the low light. The younger Immortal's black hair and smattering of golden freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose and cheeks made her look much younger than her seven hundred and fifty years.

"Did I tell you how much I love you?" Caine asked with a lopsided smile.

"I prefer you show me, Darling." The Immortal pouted; plucking the phone from her husband's hand, the woman tossed it back onto his desk.

Meredith wrapped her arms loosely about the Halcyon's neck and shifted in a way that never failed to elicit a response. Caine wisely took his cue from his wife; the Second Oldest loosened the ties of his wife's robe and parted the thick terry cloth, before slipping his hands inside. The delicious scent of mimosa and sleep surrounded the Halcyon. Sliding his hands up her ribcage, Caine lightly kissed every inch of warm, silky flesh he encountered, before filling his hands with the wonderful weight of her breasts. Swiveling the chair towards the desk, Caine swept a pile of papers off the polished cherry wood surface and chuckled softly at his wife's pleased expression. Slipping the robe completely off Meredith's body, the garment fell to the floor as the Halcyon stood and deposited his wife onto his desk; he proceeded to show his wife just how much he wanted her, apologizing in a very pleasurable way for absenting himself from their warm bed, leaving no doubt in his Immortal wife's mind the sincerity of his regret.

#

"Must you go, Caine?" the younger Immortal asked, doing her best to entice her husband back to their bed upstairs.

"Yes, Merry; I need to check with Gregory about Adam." He replied. "What are your plans for the day, love?" Caine asked.

"There are spring hangings in the attic I wish for James to air out. I would like to decorate the house for the season." Meredith replied.

The Halcyon would not be overly concerned to leave Meredith at home; however, due to recent events, the older Immortal did not wish to leave his wife - no matter how good she is - home alone, and subjected to the unusually frequent Challenges of late. When she did fight, he watched helplessly, filled with quiet terror this Challenge might be her last. He could not interfere – the Rules of the Game forbade it. Caine could only comfort himself with the promise that, should she be slain before his eyes, her Challenger would soon follow. It was a vow he would keep at all costs, for he was unable to do the same for his dear, departed first wife, Eleanor, who was killed by the Immortal Cyrus. There was no honor in her death, for Caine's most bitter enemy - whom the Halcyon played 'hunter and hunted' with since 2156 B.C. - murdered his cherished Eleanor. It was not the first time the bastard killed someone dear to the Second One, but it would be the last time. The Halcyon avenged Eleanor's death - and all others who had fallen under his enemy's blade - centuries later, when he took Cyrus' head; unfortunately, the Quickening of that encounter sparked a blaze in the pub they fought near but moments before; unchecked, the fire spread to the nearby bakeshop of Thomas Farynor; it would be remembered by generations following as the historic London fire of 1666, and the Halcyon saw no need to correct the history books.

"Come with me, Merry. We'll stop by Gregory's, then have tea at Harrod's, and spend the rest of the day shopping . . . " the Halcyon's words trailed off as he watched his wife race to the loo. Caine smiled to himself. The sooner their day began, the sooner he could (hopefully) learn when to expect Methos' return.

#

Arda's Treasures

Paris, France

Long before the Halcyon entered, the thrumming hum of the Buzz alerted the Immortals to the other's presence. The silver bell poised above the entryway jangled merrily as the door swung open and then closed. Ducking into the Shoppe, the Halcyon raked his fingers through his tawny hair as his eyes searched the room, his eyes unerringly rested upon his kind. Jacqueline held her breath as she stared back at the Immortal framed in the doorway. It was the second time she laid eyes upon Caine; the first time Jacqueline seen the Halcyon, she did not give the blonde Immortal a second thought, for the combined Buzz of the Immortals preceding him masked his presence. She gave herself over to the sensation that raced down her spine and extended through her arms, longing to grasp her sword and release the raw power encapsulated within the man at the entryway. Perhaps she could entice the handsome, fair-haired one into a tryst, wait till he was vulnerable, and then take his head like she did with all the others. Seduce and slay; though terribly unimaginative, it was one of the oldest tricks in history - her tried and true method of acquiring Quickenings. The idea appealed to the Frenchwoman with every passing moment. Monsieur Pierson, Monsieur MacLeod, and now Monsieur Spencer; their combined essence would make Jacqueline a force to be reckoned with. Firstly, Jacqueline needed to find the fair Immortal's friends; she had not seen them since her initial encounter with the dark Immortals; her clandestine eavesdropping and snooping forays when Monsieur McGulloch was not in his private study yielded no information. After she took Monsieur Spencer's head, they would no doubt have a grudge to settle when all was said and done. Jacqueline composed herself and strolled towards the Second Oldest. Thoughtfully, Caine watched the younger Immortal walk towards him, studying her with hooded eyes. The Frenchwoman's progress was cut short, as Gregory made his way towards the Second Oldest. A slight frown appeared on her face as she watched the two men exchange greetings.

"My dear boy, I was beginning to wonder when you would come again!"

Caine's attention was pulled away from Jacqueline's approach by Gregory's voice. Turning towards the Proprietor, a lopsided grin appeared on the Halcyon's face. Jacqueline took another step towards the men, when Gregory turned and addressed her.

"Ah, Jacqueline, my dear – I believe we do have a question over there. Kindly see to them while I take care of this young man, hmm?" Gregory said; putting a hand on the Immortal's shoulder, the gentleman gestured towards the hallway leading towards his private office.

"Naturellement, Monsieur (of course, Sir)." Jacqueline murmured, forcing her lips to twist into a smile.

Reluctantly, the younger Immortal returned to the counter, yet her eyes remained on the men as they disappeared into the hallway. Inside Gregory's private office, the men settled into their seats and faced each other across the expanse of Gregory's desk.

"Have a bite?" Gregory offered.

"I'm fine - thank you, Sir; I'm saving my appetite for later." The Halcyon demurred, holding his hand up.

Caine looked forward to tea with his wife at the Georgian Restaurant, and planned to indulge his sweet tooth at Max Brenner's Chocolate Bar. Caine discovered that feeding his lovely wife chocolate, and ordering more of the confections to take home often led to a much shorter shopping spree, which suited him just fine. Money was no object – Caine could buy every single item in the department store, down to the last square of toilet paper. The need to curtail his wife's shopping was much more basic; the Halcyon did not wish to move to a larger estate, in order to contain all her purchases.

"If you change your mind . . . " Gregory replied; the Immortal's host gestured towards the tiered plates laden with teacakes, and other tempting delights.

"You eat well." Caine commented.

"I did not always; there were many occasions when I had neither the time – or any food to eat. Food is not easy to come by in Wartime. There are pleasures, and then there are _pleasures_." Gregory said with a conspiratorial wink. Caine nodded in understanding. He was no stranger to hunger; his involvement in the American Revolution, where he fought (and died several times) from beginning to end, was a good Teacher in crash dieting. Caine smiled politely as he watched his host pour them a cup of tea. The Halcyon perked up as he sniffed the air.

"Mmmm . . ." the Immortal said, inhaling the fragrant aroma that spread across the room.

"You like?" Gregory asked with an indulgent smile.

"Darjeeling tea - the 'Queen of Teas'?! Very much so!" the younger man enthused, accepting his cup.

"The Queen of Teas has a bit of a sting, does she not?" the Immortal said, carefully setting his cup back down. He would wait to drink more when the hot liquid cooled to a more palatable temperature.

"Most females do, my boy." Gregory agreed with a wink.

Setting his teacup onto the gleaming silver tray, he patted the crumbs away from his lips with a linen napkin; it would be easy to give the younger man the answers he sought, before the questions were presented; however, a portion of their conversation was not meant for Caine's ears alone. In the meantime, because he liked the fellow seated across from him, he would tell Master Spencer a thing or two about their mutual friend. The Immortal's host selected a dainty spinach quiche and consumed the bite-sized morsel before beginning his tale. The Halcyon leaned back in his chair, tucked his arms behind his head and listened with rapt attention. The humorous and interesting stories Gregory told the Halcyon about Methos gave the younger Immortal valuable blackmail leverage when next he saw his Teacher.

_Methos could be maddeningly close-mouthed when he chose._ Caine thought to himself.

"He has a sword he's very attached to; did he ever tell you where he got his Ivanhoe?" Caine asked. For as long as he'd known the Oldest, the Halcyon did not remember Methos ever mentioning the origins of his cherished weapon.

"No, he did not." The other man said with a bland smile; if the young man before him only knew . . .

_: : : : Merry Old England_

_King Arthur's Court_

_410 A.D._

_ "My thanks. . . for everything." The Immortal finally said before he swung into the saddle._

_ "Where will you go, my friend?" the Wizard asked._

_ "Oh, I don't know; it's a big world. I can go wherever I want; I have time to decide . . ." Methos replied with a wry grin. Clasping forearms in farewell, the Wizard reached up and handed the Immortal a small leather sachet._

_ "What is this?" Methos asked as he opened it._

_ "A bit of the suspending powder I made. Keep it safe and use it wisely." Merlin advised. Methos nodded and pulled the drawstrings closed before tucking it into his tunic pocket. __Looking down at the King's Friend, the Immortal gave his Friend a tight smile, as he pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his head and urged Shadowfax forward. Merlin watched as the shadows claimed horse and rider._

_ "Till we meet again." Merlin said aloud; sighing heavily, the Wizard peered into the darkness a while longer before he returned to his Keep. K__nowing Methos hadn't opportunity to gather his belongings that night, the venerable old man tucked the blade into the bedroll secured to the back of Shadowfax' saddle, where it would be found in due time. Twin to Arthur Pendragon's blade, Excalibur, Nimue ceded to Merlin's insistence that certain elements and embellishments be modified, to better reflect the qualities of the wielder to whom it would belong. The old gentleman knew full well that his Pupil occasionally walked the path of darkness, yet manages to find his way back to the light. All in his Order believed Methos irredeemable and unworthy of the blade, scoffing how their 'Associate' entertained a fool's hope. Merlin knows how easily the hearts of Men are corrupted, how his Acolyte's future will be fraught with difficult choices. The resulting consequences would drive lesser Men into despair, madness – or both, yet Merlin sensed the probity in Methos' heart - though it flickered and sputtered for an Age or two, is in fact, deeply rooted. He firmly believed his Pupil's character would ultimately reveal him worthy of the esteemed blade - that the strength and courage of Methos' heart is no less greater than those of the lions gracing the quillions of the sword, his fierce loyalty and goodness of heart symbolized by the unicorn and gryphon . . . : : : :_

"Tell me, what was he like when you first met?" Caine queried.

"Less jaded." Gregory replied with a playful grin. The Halcyon merely raised an eyebrow.

Gregory gave the Immortal a wide grin. The good humor in his blue-grey eyes dimmed slightly, for the Host perceived the figure lingering out of sight, listening intently to their conversation just outside the open door. Caine's host smiled. Now that all the players were in place, easing the young man's mind wouldn't hurt a thing, he decided.

"So . . . have you heard from Adam?" Caine asked.

"No; have you?" Gregory asked.

"No. He mentioned he was going out of town, with MacLeod and Dawson. He said they'd be back in two weeks' time, and they're past due."

"Does that worry you?" Gregory asked.

"I'd hate for him to be in some kind of trouble. . ." Caine said.

"Oh, he's a big boy. I'm sure he can handle himself quite well." The old gentleman assured his guest.

"Yes, but he's quite good about keeping to a schedule." The Halcyon countered.

"We cannot control everything, Caine."

"I know; I guess I am worried about him - but don't tell him that." The Immortal answered.

Rising from his desk, Gregory wiped his hands clean. Striding over to a large cabinet, the Immortal's host opened the heavily carven doors and withdrew two long tubes, a large leather pouch and carried them to the desk. The old gentleman detached the lids before carefully removing the contents. Unfurling the papers, the Proprietor used several books as weights and the pouch to prevent the papers from rolling up again.

"Let me show you something, Caine." Gregory said, motioning the younger man to his side. The Halcyon stood and joined his host. Studying the maps, the Immortal crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.

"What is this?" the Second One asked.

"This, Caine, is a map." Gregory answered.

"Yes, I can see that, Gregory." The Halcyon said dryly. "What I meant, was: what about it?"

"This is where they are." His Host replied.

"You can't be serious.'" Caine said, his face and tone skeptical.

"And why ever not?" Gregory asked.

"Because this place _doesn't_ exist. . .you mean to tell me that all three of them are _here_ -?" The Immortal gestured to the map, striving to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

"You're absolutely correct, dear boy. " Gregory agreed. Caine raised an eyebrow, but held his tongue. Much as he liked Gregory, he wasn't fond of the term 'boy'.

"Look carefully, Caine. Can you not liken this world to yours?" Gregory asked.

Caine's dubious expression melted into a thoughtful one as he carefully studied the map; the depiction was of a single great land mass. If this 'Middle-earth' was comprised of tectonic plates experiencing an extraordinary continental drift, well . . . Caine could not ignore the striking similarities between Middle-earth and modern day Europe.

"Okay," Caine allowed "But _how_ . . they could be anywhere!" The Halcyon said; Gregory merely smiled at the young man's bewildered question and expression.

"There are en route here." Gregory replied, placing a finger on the map.

"'Rohan'?" Caine asked. "What's in 'Rohan'?" the Immortal asked.

"Decisions . . . answers, or maybe nothing." Gregory replied.

"Will they come home from there?"

"No, not quite yet, dear boy. They must journey further to Gondor."

"How many more days will that add?" Caine asked, not liking the direction their conversation was taking.

"As many as they need . . . much has yet to be decided." Gregory replied solemnly; Caine frowned lightly, noting how his Host's amused expression became markedly somber.

Gregory's eyes became slightly unfocused as he gazed at a point just beyond the Halcyon's shoulder. Turning in his chair to see what captured Gregory's attention, Caine saw nothing, save the wall; he turned back to his host.

"Gregory . . . ?" The Halcyon frowned. Gregory's face was devoid of expression, remaining unnaturally still and unblinking when the Immortal stood and waved his hand in front of his Host's face. Intrigued, the Immortal poured more tea into his cup, and held it beneath the Proprietor's nose, watching the steam rise up, undisturbed. Perplexed, he sat back down, almost spilling the hot liquid when Gregory suddenly spoke.

"Just beyond lies the way. Would you care to join them?" The Proprietor rose to his feet and walked towards the small room, drawing the heavy curtain back; the Immortal followed his Host. The scraping of the chair legs and footsteps emboldened the eavesdropper to creep closer, straining to hear the words.

"Are you all right - What just happened?" Caine asked, confused. His host behaved as if nothing odd happened.

"I'm fine. The way remains open . . . for now." Gregory said, offering no further explanation.

Though his eyes were on the Halcyon, the words were meant for another. Caine shrugged inwardly and considered his options; tempting as it is to go after his friend and Teacher, and to see this place for himself, Methos, as his host stated earlier, is fully capable of taking care of himself. Besides, he had the Highlander to watch his back; Caine's place, he decided - is with his wife.

"I'll stay here." Caine decided. He would make plans to accordingly, should his Elder need him. There were many more questions the Immortal wished to ask, yet his questions inevitably led to more questions.

"As you wish; we will speak more later. Now, I believe you are due for another appointment." Gregory said briskly, leaving the curtain drawn back.

Placated for now, the Halcyon and his host exited the office and disappeared around the corner. Quickly, the figure slipped quietly into the vacated room. Carefully studying the maps spread on the table, Jacqueline rolled them together and stuffed them into a single casing; loosing the leather cords and peeking inside the pouch, she stirred the contents with her finger, greatly pleased to see the coins. The woman quickly drew the cords tight, slipping the purse and scrolls into her satchel. There was the future to see to – hers. Walking past the velvet curtain, Jacqueline pulled open the door and stepped into the crawling mist.


	29. Star Crossed

Imladris

72 hours prior

Lounging in the balcony doorway with the Watcher, Methos searched the crowd; Jordan and her Teacher had yet to arrive.

"Y'know, I think I'm actually gonna miss this place." Joe commented.

_You're not the only one._ The Eldest thought to himself.

"Really—why's that?" Methos drawled.

"Oh, I dunno; it's different. Kinda like living in a fairy tale." The younger man mused.

_Every tale has an end . . ._ Methos cynically thought.

"Will you miss it enough to give up 'Le Blues'? Or television with a baseball game on, an ice-cold beer in one hand and remote in the other?" Methos inquired with a wry smile. Joe remained silent for all of three seconds as he considered the question.

"Hell, no! When you put it that way, there's really no choice! I'm a modern day, 20th century kinda guy - the hell with all this sword and knife stuff – gimme a gun any day." Joe said with a grin.

"I knew you'd see it my way." Methos said, continuing to survey the room.

Methos' eyes were drawn to the fair head in the crowd; in Merlin's book, the chronicle of the Mirkwood Prince detailed the lethal Sindarin assassin's unusually strong, lifelong friendship with the Dwarf, and how it is instrumental in the restoration of good will betwixt those particular Races. Methos studied the Crown Prince. Legolas' graceful movements exuded power and strength, tinged with a confidence and arrogance forged in battle, tempered with experience. Though the accomplishments and abilities of the Golden Elf are well documented in the text, no further details were recorded; Methos wondered why the Crown Prince did not rule his father's woodland realm. In fact, nothing else is written of the noble Elf, other than he built a boat and sailed into the West with the Dwarf. Methos briefly wondered if the Mirkwood Prince ever married and had elflings of his own, after sailing to the Undying Lands.

Feeling eyes upon him, Legolas turned and met Methos' gaze. They stared at each before Methos inclined his head slightly in greeting; in return, the Golden Elf gave a terse nod of his head, before turning with the rest of the Elves towards the doorway expectantly. Taking his cue from them, the Eldest straightened and nodded towards the doorway.

"Look alive, Joe. Time to greet the One that feeds us." Methos said.

"Are we late?" A familiar voice asked. They turned to see Duncan and his Student linked arm-in-arm directly behind them.

"Fashionably so. What took so long?" Methos asked.

"Where'd you come from?" Joe queried simultaneously with a grin.

"This little one was late getting ready, and the balcony steps." The Clansman replied, answering both questions at once.

"Duncan!" Jordan exclaimed indignantly.

"Oh, excuse me – she can't tell time very well; it's a Filipino thing." Duncan corrected, with a perfectly straight face.

"Duncan!" This time Jordan's outburst was accompanied by a swat on the Highlander's arm; the Chieftain's Son made his arm limp, feigning injury.

"I'll wait for you anytime, Jordie." Joe said gallantly as he offered her his arm.

"Why thank you, Joe." The woman said sweetly, before she turned to mock- glare at her Mentor.

"Me, too." Methos added, searching her eyes for any sign of warmth. Both the Watcher and the Highlander raised an eyebrow at that.

"Thank you." Jordan replied politely; her strained smile did not reach her eyes.

"What? I felt left out." Methos said with a woeful look on his face and a shrug of his shoulders.

"C'mon, Jordie, what d'ya say we leave these knuckleheads behind, hmm?" Joe suggested with a roguish grin.

Jordan's smile was all the answer he needed, tucking her hand firmly within the crook of his arm, Joe led the way to the table. Behind them, the older Immortals grinned at each another and followed their companions. Lord Elrond entered, flanked on either side by the Princes Elladan and Elrohir; after a brief greeting to the assembly, the Peredhil took his seat; on queue, the gathered host followed suit. Seated between Joe and Breiric the Ranger, Methos looked across the table, to where Duncan sat next to Jordan; to her left, sat the Wood Elf and the Dwarf. Keeping a bland impression in place, Methos' hazel eyes roamed over Jordan's face, remembering a time when she looked at him with great admiration and deep affection; unfortunately, that was years ago. Methos continued to observe Jordan throughout the meal, listening quietly to the conversations around him. Talk of the Outlanders' return to their own land was avoided – which was fine by Methos, as long as they left Rivendell soon. Despite Methos' unlimited access to Lord Elrond's library, each day they remained at the Elven realm found the Ancient One becoming increasingly weary. Conditioned for so long to flee when the Buzz was felt, the journey home would be a relief in more ways than one. When the meal concluded, Lord Elrond bade his guests to enjoy themselves at the dessert tables set back from the dance floor.

"Are you coming, Jordie?" The Highlander asked.

"I'll be there in a minute." She answered, remaining seated at the table. After exchanging greetings with Lord Elrond and his sons, the Men drifted towards the dessert tables, conversing quietly in a language never heard before in Imladris – or Middle-earth, for that matter. Taking Legolas' hand in hers, Jordan gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Why does the Son of Pier stare at you?" Legolas asked; his blue eyes darker than usual.

"I hadn't noticed he did." Jordan replied; the slight flush on her cheeks indicated otherwise.

"What exists between you and he?"

"Nothing! And . . . If you're wondering if we ever slept together, you _know_ the answer." Jordan said, sotto voce.

The tension in Legolas' body eased somewhat at her words; he could not identify what caused his mental unease, why he felt the need for vigilance when the Son of Pier is near . . . or the unreasonable sense of rivalry and resentment he felt towards the tall, pale Man. Legolas stood, pulling Jordan up with him; she glanced towards Duncan; his back faced them. Beside him, Methos and Joe stood at the edge of the dance floor, making small talk as they observed the Elves make merry. Laying a hand on Legolas' cheek, Jordan pulled his head down and stole a kiss; lightly brushing her lips against his, and along his cheek, she whispered into his ear.

"There is nothing between us."

"Forgive me, Melamin." The Elf answered.

"Always. Will you join us?" Jordan asked.

"I will come to you tonight; Lord Elrond's sons will leave shortly, and I wish to speak to them." Legolas replied. Jordan nodded, and gave the Elf's hand another gentle squeeze. She started walking towards the dance floor, when Legolas pulled her back and gave her a hard and thorough kiss.

"Do not forget, Melamin, you are mine." He said, before releasing her.

Legolas strode off towards the twin Lords of Imladris. Jordan watched him leave; turning back to the dance floor, her eyes met Methos' unwavering gaze, an indecipherable expression upon his patrician face. Jordan blushed, unsure what he witnessed. Taking a deep breath, Jordan smoothed her dress and held her head high as the went to join them.

"Anyone feel like dessert?" Methos asked; he looked at her appraisingly.

"Yeah, I think I'll get some." Duncan said.

"Nah – I'll pass." Joe replied.

"Jordan?" The Ancient One asked; Methos' golden-green gaze locked with hers once more.

"No. Thank you." She answered, forcing a polite smile on her face.

Duncan and Methos wandered over to the dessert table; the Eldest deliberately placed himself within Jordan's direct line of view. There is no way she could not see him; taking his time, Methos perused the Elven sweetmeats and confections, amused by her dogged determination to ignore him. When the men returned, Adam stood in front of Jordan. Selecting a plump, red strawberry, Adam held it out to her.

"Jordan?" The Eldest asked quietly.

"No. Thank you." she replied expressionlessly.

"Suit yourself." Methos answered, slowly biting into the juicy berry, watching her face as he chewed the fruit; it took all of Jordan's will power to keep her face expressionless under the older Immortal probing gaze - especially since her Elven lover stood with the twin Lords not too far away. Jordan could feel her face grow warmer as she glared up at him; the Eldest saw she wasn't unaffected as she strove to portray; her eyes were darker in color than normal, and the slight flush upon her cheeks were a dead giveaway, despite her flat expression. Brushing past the Ancient One, Jordan grabbed Duncan's hand and tugged the Scot towards the floor.

"Hey -!" the Highlander exclaimed.

"Come on, Duncan – let's dance." She asked cajolingly. Balancing his plate precariously, her Teacher protested.

"Jordie, I'm eating!"

"Finish it later – dance with me!" she wheedled as she took his plate.

"You don't mind holding this, do you?" the young Immortal asked the Ancient One, without looking directly at him.

The woman gave Duncan a winning smile as she thrust his plate towards Methos, pushing it into his chest harder than necessary. Jordan's smile slipped a notch when Methos' fingers deliberately caressed her hand beneath the plate. As an afterthought, her Elder gave the woman his best boyish grin; Methos decided if he wanted to have a civil conversation with Jordan, he'd best not provoke her further.

"I don't know the steps, Jordie." Duncan said.

"I'll teach you the steps!" Jordan insisted as she turned towards her Mentor.

"Fine, fine, Jordie - go slow!" the Highlander said as she dragged him away.

Eager for the rare opportunity to teach Duncan something new, and needing to put distance between herself and Adam, Jordan took the Clansman's hand and led him to the dance floor. Timing it so they joined the gracefully twirling Elves, they worked their way towards the centre of floor; Joe turned towards his friend.

"What was that all about?" Joe asked, plucking a honey coated morsel from Duncan's plate.

"Oh, you saw that, eh?" Methos asked with a slightly embarrassed grin on his patrician features.

"Hard not to; you're right in front of me. Besides, it's what I do, Old Man; even if I didn't have front row seats, that stain on your shirt gives it away." Came the cheeky response.

Looking down, Methos saw the cream and bright red berry glaze smeared across the front of his tunic. Handing his plate to the Watcher, the Eldest took his napkin and carefully blotted up as much of the confection as he could.

"Smart ass." Methos muttered.

Joe's grin just got wider before he turned his attention to back to the dance floor and his charge. Smiling up at Duncan, Jordan's laughter mingled with his, when the Highlander, a graceful and adept dancer, faltered occasionally. With an indulgent smile, Duncan accepted Jordan's lead; soon it became clear he was merely humouring her; he did not need his Jordan's help to guide her thru the intricate dance. Methos waited, gathering his courage to cut in. Though he wished to speak with her alone, there never seemed to be the right time, and he greatly desired to come to an understanding before they left Rivendell. It will be awkward to travel together and not speak. As Duncan and Jordan danced, Methos became cognizant of the Golden Elf, how Legolas followed Jordan's every movement.

_The plot thickens._ Methos thought to himself.

"Joe, what do you think of Goldilocks?"

"Y'mean that Legless guy?"

"'Legolas' is his name. And he's a Prince." The Ancient One said with a grin.

"Kinda reserved, y'know – he'd make a helluva poker player, eh? These damn Elves are hard to read, get my drift? I thought Mac was boring to watch sometimes, but Elves . . . "

"You notice how Prince Legolas hardly takes his eyes off Jordan?"

"Yeah, so?" the Watcher grunted. Exasperated, the Immortal clucked his tongue.

"Don't you think its . . . odd?" Methos contemplated how Legolas hardly looked away from Jordan.

"Nah, she's not ugly. Besides, he probably feels responsible for her. You know, that whole 'damsel in distress' bit." The younger Man said, dismissing his friend's concerns.

"Well, let's hope that's all there is to it." Methos posed.

"What're you saying?"

"For a Watcher, you sure aren't very observant."

"I'm watching Mac, and – wait a minute; are you implying that Jordie and his royal blondeness . . . ?! Nah."

"He's always close by." The Immortal countered.

"So what - it's no big deal, Adam; shows he's got good taste."

"If you say so. . . but, it could be a problem - yes?" Methos continued, watching Duncan spin Jordan around the dance floor. Joe sighed; they didn't need any complications.

"All right; let's just say there is somethin' goin' on between those two; _if_ there is, and I mean a huge '_if_ '- it won't last. We're going home soon, remember? Let 'em have their fun. We busted our asses to find her – sure as hell Mac's not goin' home without 'er." The Watcher responded, nodding towards his charge on the dance floor.

Methos decided to keep his suspicions to himself . . . for now. Pouting when he followed her steps easily, Jordan smiled again when her Teacher raised her chin and tapped his forehead against hers. Duncan swept her around the floor twice before moving them back to the centre of the floor, where he changed the steps into the familiar waltz. Deciding it was time to tie up loose ends, Methos handed the dessert plates to a passing servant. Methos took a deep breath before turning to the Watcher.

"Here I go." He said briskly.

"Where're you goin'?" Joe asked, suspicious.

"To dance with a pretty lady." The Eldest said innocently.

"Adam . . . " the younger Man's warning was lost him.

"Wish me luck, Joe." The Eldest tossed over his shoulder.

"Hey, it's your funeral." Joe called after him with a shake of his head.

Joe sighed, not bothering to watch as his friend cut in on the dance. he knew he'd get the details eventually. Instead, he decided to inspect the barrels from which the Elves were dispensing several different types of Dorwinian wines – just in case his expertise in the area was required. Making his way towards the Highlander and his Student, Methos tapped Duncan on the shoulder.

"May I?" the Ancient One asked.

"Out of all the females here, you couldn't find a partner, Adam?" Duncan muttered under his breath as he released Jordan. With a gallant bow, the younger Immortal placed Jordan's hand in Methos'.

"I found the one I want right here, MacLeod." Methos retorted as he took the Highlander's place. Methos' large hand in the middle of her back pulled Jordan closer. Silently they danced, their gliding steps in perfect unison.

"Smile, Jordan; anyone watching would think you don't want to dance with me." The Immortal said pleasantly as he studied her face.

"I don't." the woman sullenly replied.

Methos suddenly lowered Jordan towards the ground in a deep dip. Jordan's eyes widened in surprise; reflexively, she gripped his shoulder tighter. The older man's lips brushed across her cheek lightly .

"You didn't always feel that way." Methos murmured quietly near her ear.

Jordan turned her head sharply to glare at him; that was a mistake, for it brought their faces close together - close enough for the woman to clearly see the golden flecks in Methos' hazel eyes - and their lips inches apart.

"I do now." Jordan said. Despite herself, Jordan felt the same twinge of attraction that first drew her to him; with a crooked grin, he raised the woman and continued to waltz her around the room. Leaning away from him, Jordan attempted to put some distance between their bodies.

_Impertinent, senseless child. Obstinate girl. Brat._ Methos thought to himself, before sighing inwardly.

"Come back to me, Jordan." He said, pulling her back closer to him.

Jordan looked up at him sharply, unsure what to reply to his ambiguous remark. She was saved from responding, when Methos stepped away from her as the song ended, clapping along with the crowd. Gesturing for her to precede him from the dance floor, Jordan gladly walked ahead of her Elder, to where Duncan was finishing his desserts. Spying Joe across the room, Methos made a direct line towards what he hoped were the beer and mead barrels, in dire need of the fortification only a stiff drink can provide, especially after his frustratingly brief interaction with Jordan, which did not go as well as he hoped.

"Would you like some?" the Clansman offered his plate to his Student.

"No, I'm going to get some fresh air." She declined.

"Want some company?" Duncan asked.

"I'll be fine; please - enjoy your dessert." Jordan insisted.

"I'll walk you back after I finish this, then." The Highlander decided.

"Kuya (Brother), I'll be right outside. And I can find my own way back; I've been here a while, remember?" Jordan said gently. His overprotective instinct was in overdrive; normally, Jordan would be thankful; right now, she wanted a break. From all of them.

"Besides, there are some lovely ellith over there who have been eating you up with their eyes." The young Immortal said, with a nod towards the group of she-Elves openly admiring the Highlander.

"Joe has Adam to see him safely to his room; enjoy Lord Elrond's hospitality before we leave. And don't be greedy – send a few over to Adam and Joe so they don't feel left out." Jordan teased; she knew full well the Highlander is to females what catnip is to cats. Jordan smiled, for Duncan's appeal transcended realms as well.

"Well, if you're sure -" The Scot answered; admittedly hovering over Jordan since their reunion, the Clansman would be glad to make the acquaintances of the very, very lovely group of ellith his Student pointed out. . .

"Good night, Duncan." Jordan said firmly, kissing his cheek and giving him a small hug. With a sigh of relief, the woman headed out towards the balcony, for much needed fresh air to clear her mind.

#

Mannon le, Mellon (how are you, my friend)?" Elrohir asked.

"How do you think he is?" Elladan asked his brother, exasperated.

" If you would let him speak, we all will know. Let him answer." Elrohir retorted. The Mirkwood Elf stood with the Rivendell Lords and Dwarf, silently watching Jordan and the other Outlanders. Legolas shrugged noncommittally.

"They've come to take her back, Mellon (my friend)." Elrohir said matter-of-factly before he took a sip of mead. Elrond's son ignored the glares his twin and the Dwarf shot in his direction.

"No one said Lady Jordan is leaving." Gimli cut in confidently, a scowl on his ruddy face.

"Oh, and do you know something we don't?" Elrohir asked the Dwarf as he studied the stout fellow.

He failed to see _any_ redeeming qualities in this coarse, unrefined creature before him, and Elrohir could not understand _why_ Legolas chose the Underground Dweller to be his closest friend; however, it is well known amongst the Races, the Mirkwood Elves - more dangerous and fierce by nature, are less wise than their Imladris and Lorien kin. Still, Elrohir had to admit - the fierce protectiveness of the Master Dwarf regarding his Elf-friend's 'interest', is admirable, _and_ quite amusing – like that of a rodent coming to a cat's defense. Though his eyes were fierce, upon his lips, hidden within Gimli's bushy beard is a tiny smile; unbeknownst to the twin Lords, the Dwarf is, in fact, privy to an interesting tidbit of information . . .

_: : : : Imladris_

_Earlier that afternoon_

_After it was discovered who the Strangers are, and what business they had with the Lady Jordan, Gimli noticed when his Elf-friend left the small assembly. Allowing the Wood Elf time to absorb the recent events, Gimli let him be. Before dinner, it was no surprise he found Legolas at the archery range, firing arrows in rapid succession. When the Elf Prince did not acknowledge his friend's presence, the Dwarf knew the pointy ear to be deeply troubled. Gimli watched in silence as Legolas swiftly emptied four full quivers into the target placed four hundred feet away; only when the center could no longer accommodate additional arrows, were the surrounding rings bristling with the feathered shafts. When the target was brought near, Gimli barely glanced at the projectiles neatly embedded in an orderly, precise manner. Gimli waited for the Elf to speak, but Legolas remained silent. The Elf-friend was rapidly becoming impatient. After the Pointy-Ear pulled free the last shaft, did the son of Glóin speak._

"_She spoke the truth." The Dwarf said gruffly; Legolas did not reply, but continued to place the arrows into the quivers._

"_She did say her companions would come." Gimli continued. His Elven friend paused for the briefest moment before continuing his task._

"_Well . . . ?" Gimli grunted, with his thick arms crossed over his barrel-chest. He was beginning to lose his patience with the Mirkwood Elf._

"_She will leave -" he continued._

"_She will remain here." Legolas interrupted calmly. Gimli looked at his friend skeptically, wondering if the Elf had too much afternoon sun. _

"_Confident, are ye?" The Dwarf countered._

"_I have reason to be." Legolas replied; he gave the Dwarf an enigmatic look._

"_Phagh! Riddles are best reserved for wizards – why think you she will stay?" Gimli asked._

"_I asked her to Bind herself to me." Legolas answered. _

_The Elf's words caught the stout fellow off guard. Gimli blinked several times, and his mouth worked silently for a few seconds before his ruddy face broke into a wide grin. The son of Glóin grasped the Elf by his elbows, then immediately sobered._

"_Did she . . . ?" _

"_Accept? Not yet." Legolas said. "But she will." The Elf added confidently__; __despite the fact Jordan had not yet consented to have him, Legolas was not overly concerned, for he believed - deep within his soul, that she felt for him as he did her. _

_Gimli nodded slowly; though he is thrilled for his pointy-eared friend, the Elf-friend did not think the matter would be settled so easily; the son of Glóin wondered if the matter _could_ be settled so simply. __To Bind with Legolas required Jordan forgo her return to her world. __However, if the Elf felt secure about his Lady's heart, then it was enough for the Dwarf to believe the same . . . if he could only get past his unease. There was something__ about the tall, pale one, the Son-of-Pier, that did not sit well with the son of Glóin. : : : :_

Elladan stood silently at his brother's side, a solemn expression on his face; their Mirkwood friend, as he had throughout the meal, remained silent, his blue gaze focused on his lover. Initially, Legolas believed Jordan Waters deluded, yet every revelation about her led to more questions, until Legolas could no longer deny Jordan Waters is what she claimed to be- not of his world. The Elf is intensely curious to know how Jordan crossed the boundaries between worlds, for it required magic – powerful magic, which Jordan did not possess; clearly, her presence in Middle-earth is not her doing, and Legolas is convinced, though unable to reason how and why, that Jordan is meant to be in Middle-earth. Each day she remained in Imladris strengthened his conclusion; becoming lovers was a natural progression of what is meant to be. Normally in total command of his emotions and actions, Legolas felt his control over his life slip away, when the unthinkable happened – he fell in love with Jordan. It no longer mattered that Legolas' chosen one was not of his world – nor that she is Mortal. The answers he sought are beginning to unfold. Legolas' eyes narrowed, and a frown marred his features. The arrival of Jordan's 'kin' complicated matters; this MacLeod, the 'Highlander', as they called him, is able to cross worlds as well – and only spawned more questions . . . Legolas could no longer ignore the twinges of dread beginning to cloud his heart. As he pondered the situation, Legolas watched the Son of Pier and Jordan part ways in opposite directions. Ignoring the conversations taking place around him, Legolas studied Jordan's kin as he waited for her to rejoin the festivities; his innate, Elven ability sensed MacLeod's very essence - that of a warrior, evident in his stance, his hard body, sculpted face and intense, dark eyes framed by shoulder length black-brown hair neatly pulled back into a silver clasp. Jordan did not need to tell him of this MacLeod's 'protective nature'.

_I possess one, too, Meleth nín. No one takes what is mine. _Legolas thought grimly. The revelry continued well into the night; apparently Jordan retired for the evening, for she did not return, and the other Outlanders remained inside. Finally, Legolas finally spoke.

"Excuse me." The Golden Elf said. The remaining three silently watched Legolas weave his way through the crowd; when certain their woodland kin was out of ear shot, Elladan punched his brother in the arm.

"Man (What)?!" Elrohir exclaimed as his mead sloshed onto his hand.

"I am sure he already knows that." Elladan said.

"Well, maybe 'twill spur Legolas to action. He is quite complacent about it. If it were me, I'd - "

"Throw a tantrum and beg the maiden to remain by your side." Elladan finished for his twin.

"Is that wrong?" Elrohir asked innocently.

"You've not courted a maiden in an Age-" Elladan reminded his brother.

"We've more important matters to tend to-" Elrohir retorted.

"— true; if memory serves me correctly, you are always the first to run away, especially when the elleth became too attached to you. And that is wrong. If you weren't my brother -"

"I'd be someone else's brother." Elrohir said with a cheeky grin. "Well, I'd still do it, if the elleth of my choice were to leave me -" Elrohir insisted.

"No one said Lady Jordan is leaving." Gimli cut in confidently.

"Oh _really_, Fangon (Bearded One)? The Lady's kin comes to claim her. Surely even _you_ don't think they will leave _without _her, simply because she and Legolas are . . . er, how shall we say –

"Close." Elladan provided tactfully.

"Lovers." Elrohir said firmly, glaring at his twin.

"Hrmmph." Gimli grunted; the Elven Lord voiced the Dwarf's private fears for his pointy-eared friend. Hope remained - faint as it is . . . but only time would tell.

"Indeed." Elrohir said smugly.

His brother said nothing more. By mutual consent, with goblets of Miruvor and mead in hand, the Elves and Dwarf stood silently together, each wrapped in their own private thoughts, as they watched their Mirkwood Kin step outside in search of the Lady Jordan.

#

Maranwë sighed; more than anything, she wished to be reveling with the other ellith at the banquet. Instead, it was her turn to see to the nightly duties. Already, she replenished the supplies in the bathing rooms throughout the wings, refilled the oil lamps, and cleared the many passageways and hallways of stray leaves that found their way inside. The she-Elf quietly closed the door to the Lady's chambers, and continued down the hallway, determining the many lit torches and lamps weren't in need of further attention. Highly disdainful of the Lady Jordan, whose chambers she finished tending - and to whom she bade a grudging 'good night', Maranwë readily admitted the woman's presence in Imladris is diverting at the very least, and provided many sporting talks. This Daughter of Man's peculiar ways, antics, and most especially, her consorting with the Crown Prince caused much speculation, fueling many entertaining, sometimes heated, and always lively conversations throughout the Homely House.

The tongues of Imladris continued to wag on, because of the Outlanders who came to retrieve her. Their unforeseen arrival, and continued presence in the Realm provided such a diversion, dispelling boredom an ellon or elleth suffered from. All the same, the she-Elf will be glad to see the backs of Lady Jordan and her ilk, no matter how handsome the two tall, Dark Ones are; the Son of Daw, with his oddly stilted gait, is helpless as an overturned beetle - always in need of assistance whence navigating the many staircases of the House. _Everywhere_ she turned, Maranwë heard naught but '_Lady Jordan_'. Turning a lamp's flame down low, Maranwë didn't hear the light whisper of footsteps until they directly behind her; the she-Elf called out to her friend as she turned to greet her, impatient for the latest gossip Ceallach surely brought; it must be particularly dramatic, for the elleth returned surprisingly early; until Maranwë is able to join the revelry herself, the maiden eagerly anticipated the sweets her friend promised to bring.

"Ohhh, the gossip must be particularly juicy, Ceallach! What news do you bring of the wom - Mmm M-My Lord Legolas?!" She gasped; flushing a deep red, the elleth hastily bowed in deference to the Crown Prince.

"Good even, Maranwë." Legolas greeted the elleth with a stern expression on his face.

"Good even, My Lord." The servant answered, her face burning with shame.

Ceallach had oft warned her to mind her tongue; the elleth breathed a sigh of relief, and thanked Manwë she did not speak ill of the Prince's consort . . . in his very presence. The maiden did not look up again, until she heard the Prince knock on the Lady Jordan's door, and the sound of the privacy latch dropping into place.

#

Methos was restless; after seeing Joe back to his room, the Oldest was not yet ready to retire for the night. Pleasantly relaxed from the mead and beer he imbibed with Gimli, the man's thoughts darkened when he recalled his dance with Jordan. Methos was determined to seek her out, for he fully intended to finish what they started on the dance floor. Wandering the deserted hallways for a time, unsure where she was housed the Old Man was ready to abandon his search and return to his quarters, for nary a soul was in sight. Rounding yet another corner, spied a she-Elf in an adjoining hallway, her head bowed as she stood quite still.

"Manke naa (Where is) Lady Jordan's sambe (room)?" Maranwë heard the pale Outlander's heavy footsteps in the hallway, long before he arrived and called out his question to her.

'_Lady Jordan' yet again!_ The she-Elf huffed as she straightened.

Maranwë was about to inform the Son of Pier the Lady Jordan was not alone, when she thought better of it. Hiding her annoyance, the elleth politely pointed to the Lady's chamber door, before making her hasty retreat, not bothering to hide the smirk on her lovely face.

#

Closing the balcony doors, Jordan sighed, glad to be away from the crowd; after parting with Duncan, she returned immediately to her quarters, wanting a moment to herself before Legolas came to her. Jordan took her slippers off and placed them next to the fireplace. She ignored the slight increase of the Buzz, certain it was the condescending and brusque she-Elf, Maranwë. Jordan watched the flames in the fireplace dance leap and twist; the sound of the privacy latch falling into place was all the warning she had, before her arms were immobilized at her sides by the painfully tight grip on her upper arms.

"What is between you and the Son of Pier?" Legolas ground out, giving her a slight shake. Jordan looked up at him, wide eyed; she had never seen her lover like this before; she sagged in his grip, shocked.

"Do not lie to me, Jordan." The Elf warned, his voice low and intense.

"What's _wrong_ with you!? I already told you, there's nothing between us!" She answered, in awe and a touch frightened at the display of emotion from the normally composed, controlled Elf.

Jordan felt the Buzz intensify again, and her eyes darted to the door. Surely the insolent Maranwë is on the other side eavesdropping; Jordan's face flushed with anger and embarrassment; undoubtedly, the she-Elf's extraordinary hearing enabled her to pick up every detail of their spat. Legolas paused, listening to the sounds in the hallway. The footfalls are too heavy, the gait too long to be the elleth's . . . he instantly recognized the voice calling out. Legolas' eyes narrowed when the footsteps stopped outside his lover's chamber. Misunderstanding the Elf's expression, Jordan's temper flared as well.

"I _already_ told you – there's nothing between us. _Why_ don't you believe me?" Jordan retorted. "I think you'd better leave before we say things we will regret." She said, her voice low and angry.

With an unexpectedly quick maneuver, Jordan broke the Elf's hold on her arms; twisting out of his grasp, she hadn't taken two steps when she was spun around . The Immortal's breath left her lungs in a rush when Legolas pushed Jordan back hard, up against the door of her chamber.

"Bragol thalion (strength)." Legolas' terse command reinforced the privacy latch. Looking over his shoulder, he spoke again.

"Tangwa en' templa (magic lock) . . . " Legolas directed the spell towards the balcony doors, sealing them from entry or egress.

#

Outside Jordan's chamber, Methos raised his hand to knock; taking a deep breath, he lowered his hand and placed a hand on either side of the doorframe, physically bracing himself. Resting his forehead against the door, the cool wood felt good against his skin. Methos needed a moment to organize his racing thoughts. Pushing past the clamoring in his mind, he sent his senses outward . . . searching. Unable to hear through the thick door, the Ancient One easily located Jordan within the room. His brow furrowed, puzzled, for he detected another presence within; the immortal's signature was unfamiliar. Jordan was not alone. Methos' lips tightened, his hands balling into fists; pushing away from the doorframe, Methos turned and walked away.


End file.
